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Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.

Anne Sexton

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Anne Sexton
Age: 45 †
Born: 1928
Born: November 9
Died: 1974
Died: October 4
Poet
Writer
Newton
Massachusetts
Anne Gray Harvey
Typewriter
Typewriters
Borrowed
Sits
Yesterday
Love

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.
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In an old time there was a king as wise as a dictionary.
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And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of us will shout, My need is more desperate! and I will eat you slowly with kisses even though the killer in you has gotten out.
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Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
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My faith is a great weight hung on a small wire, as doth the spider hang her baby on a thin web.
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I suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room. Kaboom! Like a genie out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of the bedroom.
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There is joy in all: in the hair I brush each morning, in the Cannon towel, newly washed, that I rub my body with each morning.
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My objects dream and wear new costumes, compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.
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Then God spoke to me and said: People say only good things about Christmas. If they want to say something bad, they whisper.
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And thus Snow White became the prince's bride. The wicked queen was invited to the wedding feast and when she arrived there were red-hot iron shoes, in the manner of red-hot roller skates, clamped upon her feet.
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Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.
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My heart is on a budget. It keeps me on the brink.
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Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
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Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle.
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Bless all useful objects, the spoons made of bone, the mattress I cook my dreams upon, the typewriter that is my church with an altar of keys always waiting.
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My ideas are a curse. They spring from a radical discontent with the awful order of things. I play clown. I play carpenter. I play nurse. I play witch.
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I have been cut in two.
Anne Sexton
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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.
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the heart, this child of myself that resides in the flesh, this ultimate signature of the me, the start of my blindness and sleep, builds a death crèche.
Anne Sexton