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Poets are sitting in my kitchen. Why do these poets lie? Why do children get children and Did you hear what it said?

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
Poet
Sitting
Poetry
Hear
Lying
Children
Poets
Kitchen

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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think of innocent Icarus who is doing quite well: larger than a sail, over the fog and the blast of the plushy ocean, he goes. Admire his wings!
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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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So I won't hang around in my hospital shift, repeating The Black Mass and all of it. I say Live, Live because of the sun, the dream, the excitable gift.
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My faith is a great weight hung on a small wire, as doth the spider hang her baby on a thin web.
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At six I lived in a graveyard full of dolls, avoiding myself, my body, the suspect in its grotesque house.
Anne Sexton
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Poetry to me is prayer.
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I burn the way money burns.
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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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The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.
Anne Sexton
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Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
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The sea is mother-death and she is a mighty female, the one who wins, the one who sucks us all up.
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Even so, I must admire your skill. You are so gracefully insane.
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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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When they turn the sun on again I'll plant children under it, I'll light up my soul with a match and let it sing.
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Don’t worry if they say you’re crazy. They said that about me and yet I was saner than all of them. I knew. No matter. You know. Insane or sane, you know. It’s a good thing to know - no matter what they call it.
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There is an animal inside me, clutching fast to my heart, a huge crab.
Anne Sexton
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My objects dream and wear new costumes, compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.
Anne Sexton
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I am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?
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My ideas are a curse. They spring from a radical discontent with the awful order of things. I play clown. I play carpenter. I play nurse. I play witch.
Anne Sexton