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I am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?

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
Anyhow
Imperfect
Soul
Really
Love
Deformed

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Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.
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Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.
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Poems aren't postcards to send home.
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All in all, I'd say, the world is strangling.
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I said, the poets are there I hear them singing and lying around their round table and around me still.
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The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives
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Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.
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Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
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One of my secret instructions to myself as a poet is Whatever you do, don't be boring.
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God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.
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I find now, swallowing one teaspoon of pain, that it drops downward to the past where it mixes with last year’s cupful and downward into a decade’s quart and downward into a lifetime’s ocean. I alternate treading water and deadman’s float.
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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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I have forgiven all the old actors for dying. A new one comes on with the same lines, like large white growths, in his mouth. The dancers come on from the wings, perfectly mated.
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I remember the stink of the liverwurst. How I was put on a platter and laid between the mayonnaise and the bacon. The rhythm of the refrigerator had been disturbed.
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All considerations for these human remains! They must have an escort! They are classified!
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Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse.
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I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.
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Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.
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Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.
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bike downtown, stick out tongues at the Catholics. Or form a Piss Club where we all go in the bushes and peek at each other's sex.
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