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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
Letting
Medical
Leaves
Brain
Tell
True
Explained
Really
Hypothesis
Never
Struck

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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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There is joy in all: in the hair I brush each morning, in the Cannon towel, newly washed, that I rub my body with each morning.
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It is a dead heart. It is inside of me. It is a stranger yet once it was agreeable, opening and closing like a clam.
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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.
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Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.
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Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
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Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse.
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There is an animal inside me, clutching fast to my heart, a huge crab.
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The Saints come, as human as a mouth, with a bag of God in their backs, like a hunchback, they come, they come marching in.
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Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.
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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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All day I've built a lifetime and now the sun sinks to undo it.
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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 put the gold star up in the front window beside the flag. Alterations is what I know and what I did: hems, gussets and seams.
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I was spread out dailyand examined for flaws.
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I'm hunting for the truth. It might be a kind of poetic truth, and not just a factual one, because behind everything that happens to you, there is another truth, a secret life.
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stop the darkness and its amputations and find the real McCoy in the private holiness of my hands.
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Watch out for love (unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes), it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be heard and none of your running will run.
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I imitatea memory of beliefthat I do not own.
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Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
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