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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
Death
Mother
Sucks
Wins
Mighty
Sea
Female
Winning

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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 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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All who love have lied.
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Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.
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With this pen I take in hand my selves and with these dead disciples I will grapple. Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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Please God, we're all right here. Please leave us alone. Don't send death in his fat red suit and his ho-ho baritone.
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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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I would like to bury all the hating eyes under the sand somewhere.
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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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I try to take care and be gentle to them. Words and eggs must be handled with care. Once broken they are impossible things to repair.
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Jesus saw the multitudes were hungry and He said, Oh Lord, send down a short-order cook.
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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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Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.
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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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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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I am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?
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Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
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I, in my brand new body, which was not a woman's yet, told the stars my questions and thought God could really see the heat and the painted light, elbows, knees, dreams, goodnight.
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I think I've been writing black poems all along, wearing my white mask. I'm always the victim ... but no longer!
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