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I grow old on my bitterness.

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
Bitterness
Grow
Grows

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Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
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I keep feeling that there isn't one poem being written by any one of us - or a book or anything like that. The whole life of us writers, the whole product I guess I mean, is the one long poem - a community effort if you will. It's all the same poem. It doesn't belong to any one writer - it's God's poem perhaps. Or God's people's poem.
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When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
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God is only mocked by believers.
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Frog has no nerves. Frog is as old as a cockroach. Frog is my father's genitals. Frog is a malformed doorknob. Frog is a soft bag of green.
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The sanest thing in this world is love.
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All who love have lied.
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What a lay me down this is with two pink, two orange, two green, two white goodnights.
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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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Poets are sitting in my kitchen. Why do these poets lie? Why do children get children and Did you hear what it said?
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O fallen angel, the companion within me, whisper something holy before you pinch me into the grave.
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All the oxygen of the world was in them. All the feet of the babies of the world were in them. All the crotches of the angels of the world were in them. All the morning kisses of Philadelphia were in them.
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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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Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.
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The family story tells, and it was told true, of my great-grandfather who begat eight genius children and bought twelve almost new grand pianos. He left a considerable estate when he died.
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Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.
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My business is words. Words are like labels, or coins, or better, like swarming bees.
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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.
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There is a good look that I wear like a blood clot. I have sewn it over my left breast. I have made a vocation of it.
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Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle.
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