Quote

My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.

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
Two
Bloom
Right
Worn
Like
Injury
Name
Blood
Names
Tags
Death
Tag
Left
Wrists

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I have been cut in two.
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Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.
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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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When they turn the sun on again I'll plant children under it, I'll light up my soul with a match and let it sing.
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The fish are naked. The fish are always awake. They are the color of old spoons and caramels.
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No matter whose bed you die in the bed will be yours for your voyage onto the surgical andiron of God.
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Someone is dead. Even the trees know it, those poor old dancers who come on lewdly, all pea-green scarfs and spine pole.
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I was only sitting here in my white study with the awful black words pushing me around.
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Those moments before a poem comes, when the heightened awareness comes over you, and you realize a poem is buried there somewhere, you prepare yourself. I run around, you know, kind of skipping around the house, marvelous elation. It’s as though I could fly.
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I think I've been writing black poems all along, wearing my white mask. I'm always the victim ... but no longer!
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And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
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What's missing is the eyeballs in each of us, but it doesn't matter because you've got the bucks, the bucks, the bucks.
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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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All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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Once I was a couple. I was my own king and queen with cheese and bread and rosé on the rocks of Rockport.
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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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Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.
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She is so naked and singular. She is the sum of yourself and your dream. Climb her like a monument, step after step. She is solid.
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Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
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