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Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.

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
Soul
Sometimes
Things
Never
Wished
Pictures
Takes
Seen

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Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.
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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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I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
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When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.
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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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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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The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
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Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle.
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After a disaster strikes, it can be very devastating and very challenging. You're going to need a lot of strength and energy, and the American Red Cross suggests you go for the high protein items.
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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.
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I can only sign over everything, the house, the dog, the ladders, the jewels, the soul, the family tree, the mailbox. Then I can sleep. Maybe.
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All day I've built a lifetime and now the sun sinks to undo it.
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Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.
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If you meet a cross-eyed person you must plunge into the grass, alongside the chilly ants, fish through the green fingernails and come up with the four-leaf clover.
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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'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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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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Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.
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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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