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Earth, earthriding your merry-go-roundtoward extinction,right to the rootsthickening the oceans like gravy,festering in your caves,you are becoming a latrine.

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
Right
Gravy
Like
Oceans
Extinction
Caves
Merry
Ocean
Becoming
Earth
Festering

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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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this is no dream just my oily life where the people are alibis and the street is unfindable for an entire lifetime.
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Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me.
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We are all writing God's poem.
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All I wanted was a little piece of life, to be married, to have children.... I was trying my damnedest to lead a conventional life, for that was how I was brought up, and it was what my husband wanted of me. But one can't build little white picket fences to keep the nightmares out.
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I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.
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God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.
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I did not know the woman I would be nor that blood would bloom in me each month like an exotic flower, nor that children, two monuments, would break from between my legs.
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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.
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I am in my own mind. I am locked in the wrong house.
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Rats live on no evil star
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You must be a poet, a lady of evil luck desiring to be what you are not, longing to be what you can only visit.
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I have been cut in two.
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Here in the hospital, I say,that is not my body, not my body.I am not here for the doctorsto read like a recipe.
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Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.
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I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.
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Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.
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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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Oh sharp diamond, my mother! I could not count the cost of all your faces, your moods that present that I lost. Sweet girl, my deathbed, my jewel-fingered lady...
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Somebody who should have been born is gone. Yes, woman, such logic will lead to loss without death. Or say what you meant, you coward . . . this baby that I bleed.
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