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

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Daisies in water are the longest lasting flower you can give to someone. Fact. Buy daisies. Not roses.
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But even in a telephone booth evil can seep out of the receiver and we must cover it with a mattress, and then tear it from its roots and bury it, bury it.
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I remember the stink of the liverwurst. How I was put on a platter and laid between the mayonnaise and the bacon. The rhythm of the refrigerator had been disturbed.
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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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Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.
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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.
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Watch out for love (unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes), it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be heard and none of your running will run.
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Pulling off the fat diamond engagement ring, pulling off the elopement wedding ring, and holding them, clicking them in thumb and forefinger, the indent of twenty-five years, like a tiny rip leaving its mark.
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... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
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Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.
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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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Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.
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The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. Oh starry starry night! This is how I want to die.
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I sit at my desk each night with no place to go, opening the wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo, the whole U.S., its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones, through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
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I am younger each year at the first snow.
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To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.
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O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
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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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Images are probably the most important part of the poem. First of all you want to tell a story, but images are what are going to shore it up and get to the heart of the matter.
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the marriage twists, holds firm, a sailor's knot.
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