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

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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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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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My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.
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I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.
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the heart, this child of myself that resides in the flesh, this ultimate signature of the me, the start of my blindness and sleep, builds a death crèche.
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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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Dead drunk is the term I think of, insensible, neither cool nor warm, without a head or a foot. To be drunk is to be intimate with a fool.
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I find now, swallowing one teaspoon of pain, that it drops downward to the past where it mixes with last year’s cupful and downward into a decade’s quart and downward into a lifetime’s ocean. I alternate treading water and deadman’s float.
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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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Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
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Let there be a heaven so that man may outlive his grasses.
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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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All considerations for these human remains! They must have an escort! They are classified!
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This is what poems are: with mercy for the greedy, they are the tongue's wrangle, the world's pottage, the rat's star.
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My eyes, those sluts, those whores, would play no more.
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Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.
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God owns heaven but He craves the earth.
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Somebody who should have been born is gone.
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I love the word warm. It is almost unbearable-- so moist and breathlike.
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unless I can shake myself free of my dog, my flag, of my desk, my mind, I find life a bit of a drag. Not always, mind you. Usually I'm like my frying pan useful, graceful, sturdy and with no caper, no plan.
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