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My eyes, those sluts, those whores, would play no more.

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
Would
Sluts
Whores
Eyes
Eye
Play

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Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks.
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All day I've built a lifetime and now the sun sinks to undo it.
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I try to take care and be gentle to them. Words and eggs must be handled with care. Once broken they are impossible things to repair.
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Oh thumb, I want a drink it is dark, where are the big people, when will I get there...?
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Need is not quite belief.
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The trouble with therapy is that it makes life go backwards.
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But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build. Twice I have so simply declared myself, have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his craft, his magic.
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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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The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
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My faith is a great weight hung on a small wire, as doth the spider hang her baby on a thin web.
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Every time I get happy the Nana-hex comes through. Birds turn into plumber's tools, a sonnet turns into a dirty joke, a wind turns into a tracheotomy, a boat turns into a corpse.
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Now that I have written many words, and let out so many loves, for so many, and been altogether what I always was a woman of excess, of zeal and greed, I find the effort useless.
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I'm the crazy one who thinks that words reach people.
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You who have inhabited me in the deepest and most broken place, are going, going
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I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
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I am not lazy. I am on the amphetamine of the soul. I am, each day, typing out the God my typewriter believes in.
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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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No matter whose bed you die in the bed will be yours for your voyage onto the surgical andiron of God.
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Look to your heart that flutters in and out like a moth. God is not indifferent to your need. You have a thousand prayers but God has one.
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Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
Anne Sexton