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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
Held
Fast
Girl
Skipped
Littles
Replica
Little
Wrinkled
Oaks
Leaves

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we do not explain my husband's insane abuse and we do not say why your wild-haired wife has fled or that my father opened like a walnut and then was dead. Your palms fold over me like knees. Love is the only use.
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I will be steel! I will build a steel bridge over my need! I will build a bomb shelter over my heart! But my future is a secret. It is as shy as a mole.
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Someone is dead. Even the trees know it, those poor old dancers who come on lewdly, all pea-green scarfs and spine pole.
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Oh sharp diamond, my mother! I could not count the cost of all your faces, your moods that present that I lost. Sweet girl, my deathbed, my jewel-fingered lady...
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A woman who writes feels too much.
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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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My safe, safe psychosis is broken. It was hard. It was made of stone. It covered my face like a mask. But it has cracked.
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I'm the crazy one who thinks that words reach people.
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There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
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To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.
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Poets are sitting in my kitchen. Why do these poets lie? Why do children get children and Did you hear what it said?
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And within the house ashes are being stuffed into my marriage, fury is lapping the walls, dishes crack on the shelves, a strangler needs my throat, the daughter has ceased to eat anything.
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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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Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
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Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.
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[I] have fantasies of killing myself and thus being the powerful one not the powerless one.
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O starry night, This is how I want to die
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the marriage twists, holds firm, a sailor's knot.
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I raise my pelvis to God so that it may know the truth of how flowers smash through the long winter.
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Rocks crumble, make new forms, oceans move the continents, mountains rise up and down like ghosts yet all is natural, all is change.
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