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God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine. God went out of my fingers. They became stone. My body became a side of mutton and despair roamed the slaughterhouse.
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
Sides
Fingers
Body
Stones
Roamed
Like
Despair
Sandpaper
Sea
Slaughterhouse
Sun
Mutton
Became
Slaughterhouses
Side
Dried
Went
Stone
More quotes by Anne Sexton
women are born twice.
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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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I would sell my life to avoid the pain that begins in the crib with its bars or perhaps with your first breath when the planets drill your future into you.
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Then all this became history. Your hand found mine. Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot. Oh, my carpenter, the fingers are rebuilt. They dance with yours.
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I keep feeling that there isn't one poem being written by any one of us - or a book or anything like that. The whole life of us writers, the whole product I guess I mean, is the one long poem - a community effort if you will. It's all the same poem. It doesn't belong to any one writer - it's God's poem perhaps. Or God's people's poem.
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Women tell time by the body. They are like clocks. They are always fastened to the earth, listening for its small animal noises.
Anne Sexton
being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions
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Let there be a heaven so that man may outlive his grasses.
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This is what poems are: with mercy for the greedy, they are the tongue's wrangle, the world's pottage, the rat's star.
Anne Sexton
The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.
Anne Sexton
Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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I was only sitting here in my white study with the awful black words pushing me around.
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To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.
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All who love have lied.
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I am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?
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I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.
Anne Sexton
Why are all these dolls falling out of the sky? Was there a father? Or have the planets cut holes in their nets and let our childhood out, or are we the dolls themselves, born but never fed?
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Man is a bird full of mud, I say aloud. And death looks on with a casual eye and scratches his anus.
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Maybe, although my heart is a kitten of butter, I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.
Anne Sexton
When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
Anne Sexton
