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The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.

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
Fast
Girl
Littles
Skipped
Little
Replica
Wrinkled
Oaks
Leaves
Held

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As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
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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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The fish are naked. The fish are always awake. They are the color of old spoons and caramels.
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Thumbs grow into my throat. I wear slaps like a spot of rouge.
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Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
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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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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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I am teaching... This year it's kind of like having a love affair with a rhinoceros.
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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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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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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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When they turn the sun on again I'll plant children under it, I'll light up my soul with a match and let it sing.
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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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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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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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I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.
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Somebody who should have been born is gone. Yes, woman, such logic will lead to loss without death. Or say what you meant, you coward . . . this baby that I bleed.
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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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Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.
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