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

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I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
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Psychiatry is a dirty mirror.
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Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
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Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.
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Here in the hospital, I say,that is not my body, not my body.I am not here for the doctorsto read like a recipe.
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Blind with love, my daughter has cried nightly for horses, those long-necked marchers and churners that she has mastered, any and all, reigning them in like a circus hand.
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We are all writing God's poem.
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This is what poems are: with mercy for the greedy, they are the tongue's wrangle, the world's pottage, the rat's star.
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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 was spread out dailyand examined for flaws.
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think of innocent Icarus who is doing quite well: larger than a sail, over the fog and the blast of the plushy ocean, he goes. Admire his wings!
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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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For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.
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I said, the poets are there I hear them singing and lying around their round table and around me still.
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Women tell time by the body. They are like clocks. They are always fastened to the earth, listening for its small animal noises.
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God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.
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Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
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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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No one to hate except the slim fish of memory that slides in and out of my brain.
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Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.
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