Quote

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.

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
Self
Rain
Grapple
Take
Window
Curses
Made
Poet
Disciples
Poetry
Selves
Dead
Disciple
Hand
Pens
Though
Poem
Hands
Curse

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Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.
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I remember the stink of the liverwurst. How I was put on a platter and laid between the mayonnaise and the bacon. The rhythm of the refrigerator had been disturbed.
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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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I want to kiss God on His nose and watch Him sneeze and so do you. Not out of disrespect. Out of pique. Out of a man-to-man thing.
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bike downtown, stick out tongues at the Catholics. Or form a Piss Club where we all go in the bushes and peek at each other's sex.
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My heart is on a budget. It keeps me on the brink.
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I am a collection of dismantled almosts.
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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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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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I will be steel! I will build a steel bridge over my need! I will build a bomb shelter over my heart! But my future is a secret. It is as shy as a mole.
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Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
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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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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.
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I'm the crazy one who thinks that words reach people.
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It's all a matter of history. Brandy is no solace. Librium only lies me down like a dead snow queen. Yes! I am still the criminal.
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Poems aren't postcards to send home.
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Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings
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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 town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. Oh starry starry night! This is how I want to die.
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