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

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Once upon a time we were all born, popped out like jelly rolls forgetting our fishdom, the pleasuring seas, the country of comfort, spanked into the oxygens of death.
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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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As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
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The sanest thing in this world is love.
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Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
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Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.
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Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn.
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Thief!- how did you crawl into, crawl down alone into the death I wanted so badly and for so long.
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Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
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It doesn't matter who my father was it matters who I remember he was.
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I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
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As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
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unless I can shake myself free of my dog, my flag, of my desk, my mind, I find life a bit of a drag. Not always, mind you. Usually I'm like my frying pan useful, graceful, sturdy and with no caper, no plan.
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I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.
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I raise my pelvis to God so that it may know the truth of how flowers smash through the long winter.
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The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
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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 was the girl of the chain letter, the girl full of talk of coffins and keyholes, the one of the telephone bills, the wrinkled photo and the lost connections.
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All who love have lied.
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Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle.
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