Quote

... 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.

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
Sleep
Bitterly
Need
Thirsty
Needs
Glowing
Even
Stays
Heart
Helpless
Love
Shade
Cover
Broken
Spasms

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To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.
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The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.
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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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The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.
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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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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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sorrow is easier than guilt.
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O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
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And thus Snow White became the prince's bride. The wicked queen was invited to the wedding feast and when she arrived there were red-hot iron shoes, in the manner of red-hot roller skates, clamped upon her feet.
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I keep feeling that there isn't one poem being written by any one of us - or a book or anything like that. The whole life of us writers, the whole product I guess I mean, is the one long poem - a community effort if you will. It's all the same poem. It doesn't belong to any one writer - it's God's poem perhaps. Or God's people's poem.
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Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.
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In a dream you are never eighty.
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Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.
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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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Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
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Home is my Bethlehem, my succoring shelter, my mental hospital, my wife, my dam, my husband, my sir, my womb, my skull.
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I am teaching... This year it's kind of like having a love affair with a rhinoceros.
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Letters are false really - they are expressions of the way you wish you were instead of the way you are.
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I'm hunting for the truth. It might be a kind of poetic truth, and not just a factual one, because behind everything that happens to you, there is another truth, a secret life.
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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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