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

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Images are probably the most important part of the poem. First of all you want to tell a story, but images are what are going to shore it up and get to the heart of the matter.
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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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... and my love stays bitterly glowing, spasms of it will not sleep, and I am helpless and thirsty and need shade but there is no one to cover me- not even God.
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Despite my asbestos gloves, the cough is filling me with black, and a red powder seeps through my veins.
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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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I'll Vacuum up my stale hair, I'll pay all my neighbors' bad debts, I'll write a poem called Yellow and put my lips down to drink it up.
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The sea is mother-death and she is a mighty female, the one who wins, the one who sucks us all up.
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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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Man is a bird full of mud, I say aloud. And death looks on with a casual eye and scratches his anus.
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Mood can be as important as sense.
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My ideas are a curse. They spring from a radical discontent with the awful order of things. I play clown. I play carpenter. I play nurse. I play witch.
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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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Why are all these dolls falling out of the sky? Was there a father? Or have the planets cut holes in their nets and let our childhood out, or are we the dolls themselves, born but never fed?
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[I] have fantasies of killing myself and thus being the powerful one not the powerless one.
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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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Every time I get happy the Nana-hex comes through. Birds turn into plumber's tools, a sonnet turns into a dirty joke, a wind turns into a tracheotomy, a boat turns into a corpse.
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Thumbs grow into my throat. I wear slaps like a spot of rouge.
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Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
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The sanest thing in this world is love.
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Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind
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