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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

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
Alone
Talking
Noisy
Lost
Queen
Beautiful
Queens
Stills
Sins
Still
Forgotten
Sin
Magic

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And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
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Take adultery or theft. Merely sins. It is evil who dines on the soul, stretching out its long bone tongue. It is evil who tweezers my heart, picking out its atomic worms.
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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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You who have inhabited me in the deepest and most broken place, are going, going
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Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.
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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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Love your self's self where it lives.
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I see myself as one would see another. I have been cut in two.
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For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.
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I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
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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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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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Come, my pretender, my fritter, my bubbler, my chicken biddy! Oh succulent one, it is but one turn in the road and I would be a cannibal!
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When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
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It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.
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My life has appeared unclothed in court, detail by detail, death-bone witness by death-bone witness, and I was shamed at the verdict.
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There is joy in all: in the hair I brush each morning, in the Cannon towel, newly washed, that I rub my body with each morning.
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... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
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I am younger each year at the first snow.
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Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.
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