Quote

I am not lazy. I am on the amphetamine of the soul. I am, each day, typing out the God my typewriter believes in.

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
Typewriter
Typewriters
Believes
Lazy
Poet
Poetry
Soul
Amphetamines
Believe
Typing

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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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My life has appeared unclothed in court, detail by detail, death-bone witness by death-bone witness, and I was shamed at the verdict.
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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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All day I've built a lifetime and now the sun sinks to undo it.
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I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.
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I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.
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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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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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This is what poems are: with mercy for the greedy, they are the tongue's wrangle, the world's pottage, the rat's star.
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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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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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The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
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You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.
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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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Need is not quite belief.
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All the oxygen of the world was in them. All the feet of the babies of the world were in them. All the crotches of the angels of the world were in them. All the morning kisses of Philadelphia were in them.
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Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.
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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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Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth.
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Love your self's self where it lives.
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