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And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...

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
Aura
Auras
Remains

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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Bless all useful objects, the spoons made of bone, the mattress I cook my dreams upon, the typewriter that is my church with an altar of keys always waiting.
Anne Sexton
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stop the darkness and its amputations and find the real McCoy in the private holiness of my hands.
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Despite my asbestos gloves, the cough is filling me with black, and a red powder seeps through my veins.
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My safe, safe psychosis is broken. It was hard. It was made of stone. It covered my face like a mask. But it has cracked.
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No one to hate except the slim fish of memory that slides in and out of my brain.
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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.
Anne Sexton
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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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I who was a house full of bowel movement, I who was a defaced altar, I who wanted to crawl toward God could not move nor eat bread.
Anne Sexton
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So I won't hang around in my hospital shift, repeating The Black Mass and all of it. I say Live, Live because of the sun, the dream, the excitable gift.
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I love the word warm. It is almost unbearable-- so moist and breathlike.
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I am a collection of dismantled almosts.
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The snow has quietness in it no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.
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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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To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.
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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.
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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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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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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.
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Someone is dead. Even the trees know it, those poor old dancers who come on lewdly, all pea-green scarfs and spine pole.
Anne Sexton