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Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.

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
Craft
Trick
Crafts
Poem
Tricks
Write
Writing
Make

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A woman / who loves a woman / is forever young.
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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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And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself
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In an old time there was a king as wise as a dictionary.
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Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.
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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 tied down time with a rope but it came back. Then I put my head in a death bowl and my eyes shut up like clams. They didn't come back.
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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've grown tired of love You are the trouble with me I watch you walk right by
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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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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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My business is words. Words are like labels, or coins, or better, like swarming bees.
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Once I was a couple. I was my own king and queen with cheese and bread and rosé on the rocks of Rockport.
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Of course the New Testament is very small. Its mouth opens four times as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster, yet somehow man-made.
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All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
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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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I'm an empress. I wear an apron. My typewriter writes. It didn't break the way it warned. Even crazy, I'm as nice as a chocolate bar.
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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 suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room. Kaboom! Like a genie out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of the bedroom.
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Psychiatry is a dirty mirror.
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