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I was only sitting here in my white study with the awful black words pushing me around.

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
Around
Awful
Poet
Sitting
Poetry
Study
Words
White
Black
Pushing

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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The boys and girls are one tonight. They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. They take off shoes. They turn off the light. The glimmering creatures are full of lies. They are eating each other. They are overfed. At night, alone, I marry the bed.
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Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
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The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.
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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.
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Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.
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God owns heaven but He craves the earth.
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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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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.
Anne Sexton
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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.
Anne Sexton
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For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.
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I burn the way money burns.
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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.
Anne Sexton
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Of course the New Testament is very small. Its mouth opens four times as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster, yet somehow man-made.
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I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
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I leave you, home, when I'm ripped from the doorstep by commerce or fate. Then I submit to the awful subway of the world.
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I love you. You are closest to my heart, closer than any other human being. You are my extension. You are my prayer. You are my belief in God. For better or worse you inherit me.
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Home is my Bethlehem, my succoring shelter, my mental hospital, my wife, my dam, my husband, my sir, my womb, my skull.
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We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!
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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.
Anne Sexton