Quote

Then all this became history. Your hand found mine. Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot. Oh, my carpenter, the fingers are rebuilt. They dance with yours.

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
Hand
Rushed
History
Carpenter
Found
Fingers
Hands
Mines
Life
Mine
Like
Dance
Became
Clot
Blood
Rebuilt

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Women tell time by the body. They are like clocks. They are always fastened to the earth, listening for its small animal noises.
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Letters are false really - they are expressions of the way you wish you were instead of the way you are.
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I am not lazy. I am on the amphetamine of the soul. I am, each day, typing out the God my typewriter believes in.
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With this pen I take in hand my selves and with these dead disciples I will grapple. Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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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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There is no word for time. Today we will not think to number another summer or watch its white bird into the ground.
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Psychiatry is a dirty mirror.
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The boys and girls are one tonight. They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. They take off shoes. They turn off the light. The glimmering creatures are full of lies. They are eating each other. They are overfed. At night, alone, I marry the bed.
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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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Suddenly I'm not half the girl I used to be. There's a shadow hanging over me . . . From me to you out of my electric devil.
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And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...
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The trouble with therapy is that it makes life go backwards.
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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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Images are probably the most important part of the poem. First of all you want to tell a story, but images are what are going to shore it up and get to the heart of the matter.
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For forty days, for forty nights Jesus put one foot in front of the other and the man he carried, if it was a man, became heavier and heavier.
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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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The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
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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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Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
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