Quote

I try to take care and be gentle to them. Words and eggs must be handled with care. Once broken they are impossible things to repair.

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
Broken
Impossible
Words
Care
Take
Handled
Must
Repair
Trying
Eggs
Things
Gentle

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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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I burn the way money burns.
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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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Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.
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It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.
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Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.
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Fee-fi-fo-fum - Now I'm borrowed. Now I'm numb.
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Watch out for love (unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes), it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be heard and none of your running will run.
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I have forgiven all the old actors for dying. A new one comes on with the same lines, like large white growths, in his mouth. The dancers come on from the wings, perfectly mated.
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My eyes, those sluts, those whores, would play no more.
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Earth, earthriding your merry-go-roundtoward extinction,right to the rootsthickening the oceans like gravy,festering in your caves,you are becoming a latrine.
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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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It is June. I am tired of being brave.
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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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I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
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stop the darkness and its amputations and find the real McCoy in the private holiness of my hands.
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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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For forty days, for forty nights Jesus put one foot in front of the other and the man he carried, if it was a man, became heavier and heavier.
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We are America. We are the coffin fillers. We are the grocers of death. We pack them in crates like cauliflowers.
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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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