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Abundance is scooped from abundance yet abundance remains.

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
Remains
Scooped
Abundance

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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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I was only sitting here in my white study with the awful black words pushing me around.
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the marriage twists, holds firm, a sailor's knot.
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God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine.
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Of course the New Testament is very small. Its mouth opens four times as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster, yet somehow man-made.
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No one to hate except the slim fish of memory that slides in and out of my brain.
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Need is not quite belief.
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It is in the small things we see it. The child's first step, as awesome as an earthquake. The first time you rode a bike, wallowing up the sidewalk.
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Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.
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Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.
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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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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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The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.
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being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions
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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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True. There is a beautiful Jesus. He is frozen to his bones like a chunk of beef. How desperately he wanted to pull his arms in! How desperately I touch his vertical and horizontal axes! But I can't. Need is not quite belief.
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Jewels! Today each twig is important, each ring, each infection, each form is all that the gods must have meant.
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Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
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Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.
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Somebody who should have been born is gone.
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