Quote

I’ll put it out there: I am scarred by the nostalgic indicipherability of my own desires I an engulfed by the intimidating unknown, pushed through darkness and dragged down by the irretrievable past sweetness of my memories.

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
Past
Intimidating
Pushed
Sweetness
Unknown
Irretrievable
Desires
Engulfed
Darkness
Scarred
Memories
Dragged
Desire
Nostalgic

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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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But even in a telephone booth evil can seep out of the receiver and we must cover it with a mattress, and then tear it from its roots and bury it, bury it.
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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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Even without wars, life is dangerous.
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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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Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
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All considerations for these human remains! They must have an escort! They are classified!
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Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.
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Father, you died once, salted down at fifty-nine, packed down like a big snow angel, wasn't that enough?
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being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions
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The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
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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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I sit at my desk each night with no place to go, opening the wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo, the whole U.S., its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones, through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
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As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
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I lay there silently, hoarding my small dignity. I did not ask about the gate or the closet. I did not question the bedtime ritual where, on the cold bathroom tiles, I was spread out daily and examined for flaws. I did not know that my bones, those solids, those pieces of sculpture would not splinter.
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I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.
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Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
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