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

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Emerald as heavy as a golf course, ruby as dark as an afterbirth, diamond as white as sun on the sea.
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The ground has on its clothes. The trees poke out of sheets and each branch wears the sock of God.
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life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.
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I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.
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I’ll put it out there: I am scarred by the nostalgic indicipherability of my own desires I an engulfed by the intimidating unknown, pushed through darkness and dragged down by the irretrievable past sweetness of my memories.
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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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I love the word warm. It is almost unbearable-- so moist and breathlike.
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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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They [daisies] are my favorite flower. There is something innocent and vulnerable about them as if they thanked you for admiring them.
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Every time I get happy the Nana-hex comes through. Birds turn into plumber's tools, a sonnet turns into a dirty joke, a wind turns into a tracheotomy, a boat turns into a corpse.
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What a lay me down this is with two pink, two orange, two green, two white goodnights.
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It is in the small things we see it. The child's first step, as awesome as an earthquake. The first time you rode a bike, wallowing up the sidewalk.
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Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind
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Don’t worry if they say you’re crazy. They said that about me and yet I was saner than all of them. I knew. No matter. You know. Insane or sane, you know. It’s a good thing to know - no matter what they call it.
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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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I'm an empress. I wear an apron. My typewriter writes. It didn't break the way it warned. Even crazy, I'm as nice as a chocolate bar.
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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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We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!
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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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Even so, I must admire your skill. You are so gracefully insane.
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