Quote

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.

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
Moon
Ceiling
Turn
Ceilings
Turns
Nights
Read
Lights
Speak
Cars
Night
Count
Light
Across
Long
Car

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A woman / who loves a woman / is forever young.
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I love you. You are closest to my heart, closer than any other human being. You are my extension. You are my prayer. You are my belief in God. For better or worse you inherit me.
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I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
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There is hope. There is hope everywhere. Today God give milk and I have the pail.
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As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
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I was the girl of the chain letter, the girl full of talk of coffins and keyholes, the one of the telephone bills, the wrinkled photo and the lost connections.
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I’ll put it out there: I am scarred by the nostalgic indicipherability of my own desires I an engulfed by the intimidating unknown, pushed through darkness and dragged down by the irretrievable past sweetness of my memories.
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My faith is a great weight hung on a small wire, as doth the spider hang her baby on a thin web.
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... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
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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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Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings
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Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.
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The Saints come, as human as a mouth, with a bag of God in their backs, like a hunchback, they come, they come marching in.
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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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The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not. The trade winds blow me, and I do not know where the land is the waves fold over each other they are in love with themselves sleeping in their own skin and I float over them and I do not know about tomorrow.
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Death's in the good-bye.
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I am in my own mind. I am locked in the wrong house.
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I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.
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Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind
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Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
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