Quote

The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not. The trade winds blow me, and I do not know where the land is the waves fold over each other they are in love with themselves sleeping in their own skin and I float over them and I do not know about tomorrow.

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
Stills
Blow
Winds
Doe
Sea
Waves
Home
Trade
Hanging
Still
Tomorrow
Sleeping
Fold
Love
Wind
Boat
Float
Land
Skin
Fog
Sleep
Skins
Folds
Future
Wave
Floats

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Perhaps I am no one. True, I have a body and I cannot escape from it. I would like to fly out of my head, but that is out of the question.
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Jewels! Today each twig is important, each ring, each infection, each form is all that the gods must have meant.
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All in all, I'd say, the world is strangling.
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I find now, swallowing one teaspoon of pain, that it drops downward to the past where it mixes with last year’s cupful and downward into a decade’s quart and downward into a lifetime’s ocean. I alternate treading water and deadman’s float.
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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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I love the word warm. It is almost unbearable-- so moist and breathlike.
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the heart, this child of myself that resides in the flesh, this ultimate signature of the me, the start of my blindness and sleep, builds a death crèche.
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I will be steel! I will build a steel bridge over my need! I will build a bomb shelter over my heart! But my future is a secret. It is as shy as a mole.
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Someone is dead. Even the trees know it, those poor old dancers who come on lewdly, all pea-green scarfs and spine pole.
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As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
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being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions
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I am in my own mind. I am locked in the wrong house.
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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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Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
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I burn the way money burns.
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When someone kisses someone or flushes the toilet it is my other who sits in a ball and cries. My other beats a tin drum in my heart. My other hangs up laundry as I try to sleep. My other cries and cries and cries when I put on a cocktail dress.
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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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In a letter (no matter how quickly it is written or honestly or freely or lovingly) it is more possible to be loving and lovable, more possible to reach out and to take in ... I feel I have somehow deceived you into thinking this is really a human relationship. It is a letter relationship between humans.
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My business is words. Words are like labels, or coins, or better, like swarming bees.
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It doesn't matter who my father was it matters who I remember he was.
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