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

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I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
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Oh thumb, I want a drink it is dark, where are the big people, when will I get there...?
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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.
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Of course the New Testament is very small. Its mouth opens four times as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster, yet somehow man-made.
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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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There is a good look that I wear like a blood clot. I have sewn it over my left breast. I have made a vocation of it.
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I am not lazy. I am on the amphetamine of the soul. I am, each day, typing out the God my typewriter believes in.
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Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.
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The snow has quietness in it no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.
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I tell it stories now and then and feed it images like honey. I will not speculate today with poems that think they're money.
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And within the house ashes are being stuffed into my marriage, fury is lapping the walls, dishes crack on the shelves, a strangler needs my throat, the daughter has ceased to eat anything.
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Once I was a couple. I was my own king and queen with cheese and bread and rosé on the rocks of Rockport.
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My safe, safe psychosis is broken. It was hard. It was made of stone. It covered my face like a mask. But it has cracked.
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God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.
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We are all writing God's poem.
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Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.
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Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.
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Letters are false really - they are expressions of the way you wish you were instead of the way you are.
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True. There is a beautiful Jesus. He is frozen to his bones like a chunk of beef. How desperately he wanted to pull his arms in! How desperately I touch his vertical and horizontal axes! But I can't. Need is not quite belief.
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As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
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