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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Come, my pretender, my fritter, my bubbler, my chicken biddy! Oh succulent one, it is but one turn in the road and I would be a cannibal!
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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’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.
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My objects dream and wear new costumes, compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.
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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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So I won't hang around in my hospital shift, repeating The Black Mass and all of it. I say Live, Live because of the sun, the dream, the excitable gift.
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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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I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.
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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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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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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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Loving me with my shoes off means loving my long brown legs, sweet dears, as good as spoons and my feet, those two children let out to play naked.
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you see, we live in a cold climate and are not permitted to kiss on the street so I made up a song that wasn't true. I made up a song called Marriage.
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Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks.
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Poets are sitting in my kitchen. Why do these poets lie? Why do children get children and Did you hear what it said?
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I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
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Pulling off the fat diamond engagement ring, pulling off the elopement wedding ring, and holding them, clicking them in thumb and forefinger, the indent of twenty-five years, like a tiny rip leaving its mark.
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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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Letters are false really - they are expressions of the way you wish you were instead of the way you are.
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Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
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