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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
Grow
Grows
Bitterness

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For forty days, for forty nights Jesus put one foot in front of the other and the man he carried, if it was a man, became heavier and heavier.
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What's missing is the eyeballs in each of us, but it doesn't matter because you've got the bucks, the bucks, the bucks.
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I am tearing the feathers out of the pillows, waiting, waiting for Daddy to come home and stuff me so full of our infected child that I turn invisible, but married, at last.
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It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.
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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 would sell my life to avoid the pain that begins in the crib with its bars or perhaps with your first breath when the planets drill your future into you.
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Yes, I know. Death sits with his key in my lock. Not one day is taken for granted. Even nursery rhymes have put me in hock.
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Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn.
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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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Psychiatry is a dirty mirror.
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Love? Be it man. Be it woman. It must be a wave you want to glide in on, give your body to it, give your laugh to it, give, when the gravelly sand takes you, your tears to the land. To love another is something like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
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The trouble with therapy is that it makes life go backwards.
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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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... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
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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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think of innocent Icarus who is doing quite well: larger than a sail, over the fog and the blast of the plushy ocean, he goes. Admire his wings!
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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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My heart is on a budget. It keeps me on the brink.
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Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
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Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.
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