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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
White
Black
Pushing
Around
Awful
Poet
Sitting
Poetry
Study
Words

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One of my secret instructions to myself as a poet is Whatever you do, don't be boring.
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Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
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Talk to me about sadness. I talk about it too much in my own head but I never mind others talking about it either I occasionally feel like I tremendously need others to talk about it as well.
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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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When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
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Our checks are pale. Our wallets are invalids. Past due, past due, is what our bills are saying and yet we kiss in every corner, scuffing the dust and the cat. Love rises like bread as we go bust.
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Now I am just an elderly lady who is full of spleen, who humps around greater Boston in a God-awful hat, who never lived and yet outlived her time, hating men and dogs and Democrats.
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The sky breaks. It sags and breathes upon my face. in the presence of mine enemies, mine enemies The world is full of enemies. There is no safe place.
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Dead drunk is the term I think of, insensible, neither cool nor warm, without a head or a foot. To be drunk is to be intimate with a fool.
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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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As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
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The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.
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I lay there silently, hoarding my small dignity. I did not ask about the gate or the closet. I did not question the bedtime ritual where, on the cold bathroom tiles, I was spread out daily and examined for flaws. I did not know that my bones, those solids, those pieces of sculpture would not splinter.
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Death's in the good-bye.
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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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I grow old on my bitterness.
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As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
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Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
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Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.
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Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle.
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