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I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.

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
Tell
True
Explained
Really
Hypothesis
Never
Struck
Letting
Medical
Leaves
Brain

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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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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We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!
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Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
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O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
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Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.
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we do not explain my husband's insane abuse and we do not say why your wild-haired wife has fled or that my father opened like a walnut and then was dead. Your palms fold over me like knees. Love is the only use.
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Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.
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I am tearing the feathers out of the pillows, waiting, waiting for Daddy to come home and stuff me so full of our infected child that I turn invisible, but married, at last.
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sorrow is easier than guilt.
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And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
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I tell it stories now and then and feed it images like honey. I will not speculate today with poems that think they're money.
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Come, my pretender, my fritter, my bubbler, my chicken biddy! Oh succulent one, it is but one turn in the road and I would be a cannibal!
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It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious
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I leave you, home, when I'm ripped from the doorstep by commerce or fate. Then I submit to the awful subway of the world.
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Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
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... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
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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 suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room. Kaboom! Like a genie out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of the bedroom.
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Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.
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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
Anne Sexton