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I said, the poets are there I hear them singing and lying around their round table and around me still.

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
Singing
Poet
Poetry
Hear
Poets
Lying
Round
Around
Rounds
Stills
Table
Still
Tables

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It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious
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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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Big heart, wide as a watermelon, but wise as birth, there is so much abundance in the people I have.
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Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.
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Blind with love, my daughter has cried nightly for horses, those long-necked marchers and churners that she has mastered, any and all, reigning them in like a circus hand.
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I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.
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Emerald as heavy as a golf course, ruby as dark as an afterbirth, diamond as white as sun on the sea.
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What a lay me down this is with two pink, two orange, two green, two white goodnights.
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Poems aren't postcards to send home.
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O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
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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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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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Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.
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I brush my hair, waiting in the pain machine for my bones to get hard, for the soft, soft bones that were laid apart and were screwed together. They will knit. And the other corpse, the fractured heart, I feed it piecemeal, little chalice. I'm good to it.
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I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
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Maybe, although my heart is a kitten of butter, I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.
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I tied down time with a rope but it came back. Then I put my head in a death bowl and my eyes shut up like clams. They didn't come back.
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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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Someone is dead. Even the trees know it, those poor old dancers who come on lewdly, all pea-green scarfs and spine pole.
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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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