Quote

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.

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
Growing
Nurse
Yachts
Words
Slowly
Mouthful
Away
Clock
Yacht
Come
Field
Clocks
Without
Fields
Nurses
Like
Watches
Steering
Watch
Petals
Open
Lilies

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Don't bite till you know if it's bread or stone.
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I imitatea memory of beliefthat I do not own.
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Take a woman talking, purging herself with rhymes, drumming words out like a typewriter, planting words in you like grass seed. You'll move off.
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There is an animal inside me, clutching fast to my heart, a huge crab.
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I've grown tired of love You are the trouble with me I watch you walk right by
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In an old time there was a king as wise as a dictionary.
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For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.
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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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My eyes, those sluts, those whores, would play no more.
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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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Once I was a couple. I was my own king and queen with cheese and bread and rosé on the rocks of Rockport.
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The silence is death. It comes each day with its shock to sit on my shoulder, a white bird, and peck at the black eyes and the vibrating red muscle of my mouth.
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I would like to think that no one would die anymore if we all believed in daisies but the worms know better, don't they? They slide into the ear of a corpse and listen to his great sigh.
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being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions
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I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
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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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Cinderella and the prince lived, they say, happily ever after, like two dolls in a museum case never bothered by diapers or dust, never arguing over the timing of an egg, never telling the same story twice.
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Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
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I sit at my desk each night with no place to go, opening the wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo, the whole U.S., its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones, through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
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I am younger each year at the first snow. When I see it, suddenly, in the air, all little and white and moving then I am in love again and very young and I believe everything.
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