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I've grown tired of love You are the trouble with me I watch you walk right by

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
Walk
Walks
Trouble
Right
Love
Grown
Tired
Watches
Watch

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Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.
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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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But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build. Twice I have so simply declared myself, have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his craft, his magic.
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It's all a matter of history. Brandy is no solace. Librium only lies me down like a dead snow queen. Yes! I am still the criminal.
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As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
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The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
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Love? Be it man. Be it woman. It must be a wave you want to glide in on, give your body to it, give your laugh to it, give, when the gravelly sand takes you, your tears to the land. To love another is something like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle.
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The boys and girls are one tonight. They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. They take off shoes. They turn off the light. The glimmering creatures are full of lies. They are eating each other. They are overfed. At night, alone, I marry the bed.
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I imitatea memory of beliefthat I do not own.
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Somebody who should have been born is gone. Yes, woman, such logic will lead to loss without death. Or say what you meant, you coward . . . this baby that I bleed.
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Oh thumb, I want a drink it is dark, where are the big people, when will I get there...?
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And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself
Anne Sexton
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The ground has on its clothes. The trees poke out of sheets and each branch wears the sock of God.
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When they turn the sun on again I'll plant children under it, I'll light up my soul with a match and let it sing.
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I brush my hair, waiting in the pain machine for my bones to get hard, for the soft, soft bones that were laid apart and were screwed together. They will knit. And the other corpse, the fractured heart, I feed it piecemeal, little chalice. I'm good to it.
Anne Sexton
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Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
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Images are probably the most important part of the poem. First of all you want to tell a story, but images are what are going to shore it up and get to the heart of the matter.
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Man is a bird full of mud, I say aloud. And death looks on with a casual eye and scratches his anus.
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