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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
Study
Words
White
Black
Pushing
Around
Awful
Poet
Sitting
Poetry

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Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.
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Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.
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At six I lived in a graveyard full of dolls, avoiding myself, my body, the suspect in its grotesque house.
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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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You who have inhabited me in the deepest and most broken place, are going, going
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Despite my asbestos gloves, the cough is filling me with black, and a red powder seeps through my veins.
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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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With this pen I take in hand my selves and with these dead disciples I will grapple. Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse.
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For forty days, for forty nights Jesus put one foot in front of the other and the man he carried, if it was a man, became heavier and heavier.
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And thus Snow White became the prince's bride. The wicked queen was invited to the wedding feast and when she arrived there were red-hot iron shoes, in the manner of red-hot roller skates, clamped upon her feet.
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I burn the way money burns.
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Take a woman talking, purging herself with rhymes, drumming words out like a typewriter, planting words in you like grass seed. You'll move off.
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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 tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.
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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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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 am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
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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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Perhaps I am no one. True, I have a body and I cannot escape from it. I would like to fly out of my head, but that is out of the question.
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