Quote

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.

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
Bird
Handsome
Room
Prince
Fireflies
Rooms
Bedroom
Genie
Suffering
Corner
Genies
Like
Birds
Firefly
Corners
Arose
Suffer
Frogs
Across
Threw

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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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I put the gold star up in the front window beside the flag. Alterations is what I know and what I did: hems, gussets and seams.
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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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As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
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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 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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And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself
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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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The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
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The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
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To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.
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You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.
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You must be a poet, a lady of evil luck desiring to be what you are not, longing to be what you can only visit.
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So I won't hang around in my hospital shift, repeating The Black Mass and all of it. I say Live, Live because of the sun, the dream, the excitable gift.
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I have forgiven all the old actors for dying. A new one comes on with the same lines, like large white growths, in his mouth. The dancers come on from the wings, perfectly mated.
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I brush my hair, waiting in the pain machine for my bones to get hard, for the soft, soft bones that were laid apart and were screwed together. They will knit. And the other corpse, the fractured heart, I feed it piecemeal, little chalice. I'm good to it.
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Here in the hospital, I say,that is not my body, not my body.I am not here for the doctorsto read like a recipe.
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I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.
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