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I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.

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
Dorian
Gray
Wall

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My sleeping pill is white. It is a splendid pearl it floats me out of myself, my stung skin as alien as a loose bolt of cloth.
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One of my secret instructions to myself as a poet is Whatever you do, don't be boring.
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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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True. There is a beautiful Jesus. He is frozen to his bones like a chunk of beef. How desperately he wanted to pull his arms in! How desperately I touch his vertical and horizontal axes! But I can't. Need is not quite belief.
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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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When the cow gives blood and the Christ is born we must all eat sacrifices. We must all eat beautiful women.
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Our checks are pale. Our wallets are invalids. Past due, past due, is what our bills are saying and yet we kiss in every corner, scuffing the dust and the cat. Love rises like bread as we go bust.
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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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The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
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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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I would like to think that no one would die anymore if we all believed in daisies but the worms know better, don't they? They slide into the ear of a corpse and listen to his great sigh.
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I am crazy as hell, but I know it. And knowing it is a kind of sanity that makes the sickness worse.
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And if I tried to give you something else, something outside myself, you would not know that the worst of anyone can be, finally, an accident of hope
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I like you your eyes are full of language. [Letter to Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]
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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've grown tired of love You are the trouble with me I watch you walk right by
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I want to kiss God on His nose and watch Him sneeze and so do you. Not out of disrespect. Out of pique. Out of a man-to-man thing.
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I try to take care and be gentle to them. Words and eggs must be handled with care. Once broken they are impossible things to repair.
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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.
Anne Sexton
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The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
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