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

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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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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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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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Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
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The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
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When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.
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this is no dream just my oily life where the people are alibis and the street is unfindable for an entire lifetime.
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I'm the crazy one who thinks that words reach people.
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I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
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You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.
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I was spread out dailyand examined for flaws.
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Nature is full of teeth that come in one by one, then decay, fall out.
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A woman / who loves a woman / is forever young.
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All the oxygen of the world was in them. All the feet of the babies of the world were in them. All the crotches of the angels of the world were in them. All the morning kisses of Philadelphia were in them.
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I have a black look I do not like. It is a mask I try on. I migrate toward it and its frog sits on my lips and defecates.
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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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So I won't hang around in my hospital shift, repeating The Black Mass and all of it. I say Live, Live because of the sun, the dream, the excitable gift.
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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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I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.
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I'll Vacuum up my stale hair, I'll pay all my neighbors' bad debts, I'll write a poem called Yellow and put my lips down to drink it up.
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