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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
Sea
Female
Winning
Death
Mother
Sucks
Wins
Mighty

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I tell it stories now and then and feed it images like honey. I will not speculate today with poems that think they're money.
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Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
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The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
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You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.
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Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
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the heart, this child of myself that resides in the flesh, this ultimate signature of the me, the start of my blindness and sleep, builds a death crèche.
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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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In an old time there was a king as wise as a dictionary.
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Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
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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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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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Talk to me about sadness. I talk about it too much in my own head but I never mind others talking about it either I occasionally feel like I tremendously need others to talk about it as well.
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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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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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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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...became a woman who learned her own skin and dug into her soul and found it full.
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You must be a poet, a lady of evil luck desiring to be what you are not, longing to be what you can only visit.
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Of course the New Testament is very small. Its mouth opens four times as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster, yet somehow man-made.
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I like you your eyes are full of language. [Letter to Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]
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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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