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And if I tried to give you something else, something outside myself, you would not know that the worst of anyone can be, finally, an accident of hope

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
Anyone
Hope
Else
Accident
Give
Accidents
Giving
Finally
Something
Tried
Would
Outside
Worst

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Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
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Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.
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Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
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I think I've been writing black poems all along, wearing my white mask. I'm always the victim ... but no longer!
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I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.
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The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives
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The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
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There is no word for time. Today we will not think to number another summer or watch its white bird into the ground.
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Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.
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Even so, I must admire your skill. You are so gracefully insane.
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It doesn't matter who my father was it matters who I remember he was.
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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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One of my secret instructions to myself as a poet is Whatever you do, don't be boring.
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Now that I have written many words, and let out so many loves, for so many, and been altogether what I always was a woman of excess, of zeal and greed, I find the effort useless.
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I can only sign over everything, the house, the dog, the ladders, the jewels, the soul, the family tree, the mailbox. Then I can sleep. Maybe.
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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.
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O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
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Please God, we're all right here. Please leave us alone. Don't send death in his fat red suit and his ho-ho baritone.
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Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
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All who love have lied.
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