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

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The body is a damn hard thing to kill.
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My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
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I, in my brand new body, which was not a woman's yet, told the stars my questions and thought God could really see the heat and the painted light, elbows, knees, dreams, goodnight.
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Poems aren't postcards to send home.
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Mood can be as important as sense.
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And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
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Thumbs grow into my throat. I wear slaps like a spot of rouge.
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To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.
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Don't bite till you know if it's bread or stone.
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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 see myself as one would see another. I have been cut in two.
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I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.
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The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
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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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Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks.
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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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O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
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God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine. God went out of my fingers. They became stone. My body became a side of mutton and despair roamed the slaughterhouse.
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it was my first doll that water went into and water came out of much earlier it was the diaper I wore and the dirt thereof and my mother hating me for it
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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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