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The sea is mother-death and she is a mighty female, the one who wins, the one who sucks us all up.

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
Female
Winning
Death
Mother
Sucks
Wins
Mighty
Sea

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Then all this became history. Your hand found mine. Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot. Oh, my carpenter, the fingers are rebuilt. They dance with yours.
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Emerald as heavy as a golf course, ruby as dark as an afterbirth, diamond as white as sun on the sea.
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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
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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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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
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life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.
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God owns heaven but He craves the earth.
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It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.
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What's missing is the eyeballs in each of us, but it doesn't matter because you've got the bucks, the bucks, the bucks.
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As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
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All who love have lied.
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Some women marry houses. It's another kind of skin it has a heart, a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.
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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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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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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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I am your dwarf. I am the enemy within. I am the boss of your dreams. See. Your hand shakes. It is not palsy or booze. It is your Doppelganger trying to get out. Beware...Beware...
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All in all, I'd say, the world is strangling.
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Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
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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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