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Now that I have written many words, and let out so many loves, for so many, and been altogether what I always was a woman of excess, of zeal and greed, I find the effort useless.

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
Written
Excess
Words
Greed
Woman
Useless
Find
Loves
Many
Poet
Always
Poetry
Emotion
Zeal
Effort
Altogether

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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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I am tearing the feathers out of the pillows, waiting, waiting for Daddy to come home and stuff me so full of our infected child that I turn invisible, but married, at last.
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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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There is hope. There is hope everywhere. Today God give milk and I have the pail.
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Daisies in water are the longest lasting flower you can give to someone. Fact. Buy daisies. Not roses.
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With this pen I take in hand my selves and with these dead disciples I will grapple. Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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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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it was my first doll that water went into and water came out of much earlier it was the diaper I wore and the dirt thereof and my mother hating me for it
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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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Pulling off the fat diamond engagement ring, pulling off the elopement wedding ring, and holding them, clicking them in thumb and forefinger, the indent of twenty-five years, like a tiny rip leaving its mark.
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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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All day I've built a lifetime and now the sun sinks to undo it.
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My safe, safe psychosis is broken. It was hard. It was made of stone. It covered my face like a mask. But it has cracked.
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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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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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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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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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Father, you died once, salted down at fifty-nine, packed down like a big snow angel, wasn't that enough?
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I think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.
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And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...
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