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All in all, I'd say, the world is strangling.

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
Strangling
World

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My eyes, those sluts, those whores, would play no more.
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Yes, I know. Death sits with his key in my lock. Not one day is taken for granted. Even nursery rhymes have put me in hock.
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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.
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I would sell my life to avoid the pain that begins in the crib with its bars or perhaps with your first breath when the planets drill your future into you.
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I have a black look I do not like. It is a mask I try on. I migrate toward it and its frog sits on my lips and defecates.
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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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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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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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Don't bite till you know if it's bread or stone.
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In a letter (no matter how quickly it is written or honestly or freely or lovingly) it is more possible to be loving and lovable, more possible to reach out and to take in ... I feel I have somehow deceived you into thinking this is really a human relationship. It is a letter relationship between humans.
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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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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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Death's in the good-bye.
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The ground has on its clothes. The trees poke out of sheets and each branch wears the sock of God.
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The trouble with therapy is that it makes life go backwards.
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To be without God is to be a snake / who wants to swallow an elephant.
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Then all this became history. Your hand found mine. Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot. Oh, my carpenter, the fingers are rebuilt. They dance with yours.
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Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.
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Need is not quite belief.
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