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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
Brain
Tell
True
Explained
Really
Hypothesis
Never
Struck
Letting
Medical
Leaves

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All who love have lied.
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There is hope. There is hope everywhere. Today God give milk and I have the pail.
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When someone kisses someone or flushes the toilet it is my other who sits in a ball and cries. My other beats a tin drum in my heart. My other hangs up laundry as I try to sleep. My other cries and cries and cries when I put on a cocktail dress.
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When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
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I would sell my life to avoid the pain that begins in the crib with its bars or perhaps with your first breath when the planets drill your future into you.
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Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
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Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
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I burn the way money burns.
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I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
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Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
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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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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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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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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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One of my secret instructions to myself as a poet is Whatever you do, don't be boring.
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I was the girl of the chain letter, the girl full of talk of coffins and keyholes, the one of the telephone bills, the wrinkled photo and the lost connections.
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... and my love stays bitterly glowing, spasms of it will not sleep, and I am helpless and thirsty and need shade but there is no one to cover me- not even God.
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To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.
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Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks.
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I keep feeling that there isn't one poem being written by any one of us - or a book or anything like that. The whole life of us writers, the whole product I guess I mean, is the one long poem - a community effort if you will. It's all the same poem. It doesn't belong to any one writer - it's God's poem perhaps. Or God's people's poem.
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