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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.

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
Money
Speculate
Stories
Poems
Today
Honey
Think
Feed
Thinking
Images
Like
Poet
Poetry
Tell

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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Frog has no nerves. Frog is as old as a cockroach. Frog is my father's genitals. Frog is a malformed doorknob. Frog is a soft bag of green.
Anne Sexton
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The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
Anne Sexton
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There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
Anne Sexton
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The silence is death. It comes each day with its shock to sit on my shoulder, a white bird, and peck at the black eyes and the vibrating red muscle of my mouth.
Anne Sexton
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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
Anne Sexton
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My heart is on a budget. It keeps me on the brink.
Anne Sexton
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It is in the small things we see it. The child's first step, as awesome as an earthquake. The first time you rode a bike, wallowing up the sidewalk.
Anne Sexton
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Rats live on no evil star
Anne Sexton
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Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.
Anne Sexton
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I'm an empress. I wear an apron. My typewriter writes. It didn't break the way it warned. Even crazy, I'm as nice as a chocolate bar.
Anne Sexton
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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.
Anne Sexton
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Why are all these dolls falling out of the sky? Was there a father? Or have the planets cut holes in their nets and let our childhood out, or are we the dolls themselves, born but never fed?
Anne Sexton
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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.
Anne Sexton
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A woman who writes feels too much.
Anne Sexton
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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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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
Anne Sexton
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Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
Anne Sexton
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Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
Anne Sexton
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There is an animal inside me, clutching fast to my heart, a huge crab.
Anne Sexton
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It is June. I am tired of being brave.
Anne Sexton