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You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.
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
White
Hunger
Knuckles
Strong
Bed
Snail
Firsts
Lips
Fist
First
Animals
Fists
Love
Parent
Breast
Like
Animal
Feds
Small
Breasts
Wrong
Lays
Knuckle
More quotes by Anne Sexton
Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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I remember the stink of the liverwurst. How I was put on a platter and laid between the mayonnaise and the bacon. The rhythm of the refrigerator had been disturbed.
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Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.
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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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Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
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In a dream you are never eighty.
Anne Sexton
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!
Anne Sexton
When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
Anne Sexton
Now that I have written many words, and let out so many loves, for so many, and been altogether what I always was a woman of excess, of zeal and greed, I find the effort useless.
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I think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.
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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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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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The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.
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With this pen I take in hand my selves and with these dead disciples I will grapple. Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself
Anne Sexton
Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.
Anne Sexton
Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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I am younger each year at the first snow.
Anne Sexton
You who have inhabited me in the deepest and most broken place, are going, going
Anne Sexton
Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
Anne Sexton