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You must be a poet, a lady of evil luck desiring to be what you are not, longing to be what you can only visit.

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
Must
Visit
Lady
Longing
Luck
Poet
Poetry
Evil
Desire
Desiring

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being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions
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Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
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For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.
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Here in the hospital, I say,that is not my body, not my body.I am not here for the doctorsto read like a recipe.
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Images are probably the most important part of the poem. First of all you want to tell a story, but images are what are going to shore it up and get to the heart of the matter.
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God owns heaven but He craves the earth.
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I leave you, home, when I'm ripped from the doorstep by commerce or fate. Then I submit to the awful subway of the world.
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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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When the cow gives blood and the Christ is born we must all eat sacrifices. We must all eat beautiful women.
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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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I said, the poets are there I hear them singing and lying around their round table and around me still.
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I've grown tired of love You are the trouble with me I watch you walk right by
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the heart, this child of myself that resides in the flesh, this ultimate signature of the me, the start of my blindness and sleep, builds a death crèche.
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Even so, I must admire your skill. You are so gracefully insane.
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Death's in the good-bye.
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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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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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I put the gold star up in the front window beside the flag. Alterations is what I know and what I did: hems, gussets and seams.
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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.
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I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.
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