Quote

Talk to me about sadness. I talk about it too much in my own head but I never mind others talking about it either I occasionally feel like I tremendously need others to talk about it as well.

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
Needs
Talk
Much
Talking
Mind
Others
Never
Wells
Tremendously
Like
Well
Occasionally
Need
Sadness
Feel
Either
Feels
Head

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The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
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The snow has quietness in it no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.
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As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
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There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
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We are all writing God's poem.
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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 the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.
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Take adultery or theft. Merely sins. It is evil who dines on the soul, stretching out its long bone tongue. It is evil who tweezers my heart, picking out its atomic worms.
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Please God, we're all right here. Please leave us alone. Don't send death in his fat red suit and his ho-ho baritone.
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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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Psychiatry is a dirty mirror.
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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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Somebody who should have been born is gone. Yes, woman, such logic will lead to loss without death. Or say what you meant, you coward . . . this baby that I bleed.
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Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle.
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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 your dwarf. I am the enemy within. I am the boss of your dreams. See. Your hand shakes. It is not palsy or booze. It is your Doppelganger trying to get out. Beware...Beware...
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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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Love? Be it man. Be it woman. It must be a wave you want to glide in on, give your body to it, give your laugh to it, give, when the gravelly sand takes you, your tears to the land. To love another is something like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
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Earth, earthriding your merry-go-roundtoward extinction,right to the rootsthickening the oceans like gravy,festering in your caves,you are becoming a latrine.
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I have forgiven all the old actors for dying. A new one comes on with the same lines, like large white growths, in his mouth. The dancers come on from the wings, perfectly mated.
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