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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
Writing
Make
Craft
Trick
Crafts
Poem
Tricks
Write

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. Oh starry starry night! This is how I want to die.
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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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life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.
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Watch out for love (unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes), it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be heard and none of your running will run.
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Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.
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And within the house ashes are being stuffed into my marriage, fury is lapping the walls, dishes crack on the shelves, a strangler needs my throat, the daughter has ceased to eat anything.
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My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
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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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I am crazy as hell, but I know it. And knowing it is a kind of sanity that makes the sickness worse.
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All who love have lied.
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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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The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.
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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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Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
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I was spread out dailyand examined for flaws.
Anne Sexton
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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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When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
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Blind with love, my daughter has cried nightly for horses, those long-necked marchers and churners that she has mastered, any and all, reigning them in like a circus hand.
Anne Sexton
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Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
Anne Sexton