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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.

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

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Nature is full of teeth that come in one by one, then decay, fall out.
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Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.
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When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.
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O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
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Big heart, wide as a watermelon, but wise as birth, there is so much abundance in the people I have.
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When the cow gives blood and the Christ is born we must all eat sacrifices. We must all eat beautiful women.
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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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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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At six I lived in a graveyard full of dolls, avoiding myself, my body, the suspect in its grotesque house.
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... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
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Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth.
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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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The sanest thing in this world is love.
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Rats live on no evil star
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God is only mocked by believers.
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The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.
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Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
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I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
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Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
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O fallen angel, the companion within me, whisper something holy before you pinch me into the grave.
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