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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
Make
Craft
Trick
Crafts
Poem
Tricks
Write
Writing

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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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I put the gold star up in the front window beside the flag. Alterations is what I know and what I did: hems, gussets and seams.
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Poets are sitting in my kitchen. Why do these poets lie? Why do children get children and Did you hear what it said?
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God owns heaven but He craves the earth.
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Don’t worry if they say you’re crazy. They said that about me and yet I was saner than all of them. I knew. No matter. You know. Insane or sane, you know. It’s a good thing to know - no matter what they call it.
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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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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 Its mouth opens four times as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster, yet somehow man-made.
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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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O fallen angel, the companion within me, whisper something holy before you pinch me into the grave.
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My ideas are a curse. They spring from a radical discontent with the awful order of things. I play clown. I play carpenter. I play nurse. I play witch.
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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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Then God spoke to me and said: People say only good things about Christmas. If they want to say something bad, they whisper.
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I imitatea memory of beliefthat I do not own.
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My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.
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Now I am just an elderly lady who is full of spleen, who humps around greater Boston in a God-awful hat, who never lived and yet outlived her time, hating men and dogs and Democrats.
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So I won't hang around in my hospital shift, repeating The Black Mass and all of it. I say Live, Live because of the sun, the dream, the excitable gift.
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Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.
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I remember the stink of the liverwurst. How I was put on a platter and laid between the mayonnaise and the bacon. The rhythm of the refrigerator had been disturbed.
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I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.
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I am a collection of dismantled almosts.
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