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

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Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.
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I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.
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I imitatea memory of beliefthat I do not own.
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Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.
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Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind
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And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself
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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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I suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room. Kaboom! Like a genie out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of the bedroom.
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I am younger each year at the first snow.
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I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
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The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.
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Nature is full of teeth that come in one by one, then decay, fall out.
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I am tearing the feathers out of the pillows, waiting, waiting for Daddy to come home and stuff me so full of our infected child that I turn invisible, but married, at last.
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Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
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Earth, earthriding your merry-go-roundtoward extinction,right to the rootsthickening the oceans like gravy,festering in your caves,you are becoming a latrine.
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[I] have fantasies of killing myself and thus being the powerful one not the powerless one.
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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.
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