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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
Poetry
Study
Words
White
Black
Pushing
Around
Awful
Poet
Sitting

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Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.
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Here in the hospital, I say,that is not my body, not my body.I am not here for the doctorsto read like a recipe.
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I sit at my desk each night with no place to go, opening the wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo, the whole U.S., its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones, through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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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 must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.
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To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.
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I keep feeling that there isn't one poem being written by any one of us - or a book or anything like that. The whole life of us writers, the whole product I guess I mean, is the one long poem - a community effort if you will. It's all the same poem. It doesn't belong to any one writer - it's God's poem perhaps. Or God's people's poem.
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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.
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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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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
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There is joy in all: in the hair I brush each morning, in the Cannon towel, newly washed, that I rub my body with each morning.
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If you meet a cross-eyed person you must plunge into the grass, alongside the chilly ants, fish through the green fingernails and come up with the four-leaf clover.
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I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
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Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.
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I put the gold star up in the front window beside the flag. Alterations is what I know and what I did: hems, gussets and seams.
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As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
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O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
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Somebody who should have been born is gone. Yes, woman, such logic will lead to loss without death. Or say what you meant, you coward . . . this baby that I bleed.
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