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All considerations for these human remains! They must have an escort! They are classified!

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
Remains
War
Human
Humans
Must
Escort
Classified
Considerations
Consideration

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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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Rats live on no evil star
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I'm an empress. I wear an apron. My typewriter writes. It didn't break the way it warned. Even crazy, I'm as nice as a chocolate bar.
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The ground has on its clothes. The trees poke out of sheets and each branch wears the sock of God.
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I would sell my life to avoid the pain that begins in the crib with its bars or perhaps with your first breath when the planets drill your future into you.
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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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And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of us will shout, My need is more desperate! and I will eat you slowly with kisses even though the killer in you has gotten out.
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My heart is on a budget. It keeps me on the brink.
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The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
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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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Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.
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Take adultery or theft. Merely sins. It is evil who dines on the soul, stretching out its long bone tongue. It is evil who tweezers my heart, picking out its atomic worms.
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It is a dead heart. It is inside of me. It is a stranger yet once it was agreeable, opening and closing like a clam.
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... and my love stays bitterly glowing, spasms of it will not sleep, and I am helpless and thirsty and need shade but there is no one to cover me- not even God.
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Cinderella and the prince lived, they say, happily ever after, like two dolls in a museum case never bothered by diapers or dust, never arguing over the timing of an egg, never telling the same story twice.
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Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
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All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
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Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.
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Perhaps I am no one. True, I have a body and I cannot escape from it. I would like to fly out of my head, but that is out of the question.
Anne Sexton
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Daylight is nobody's friend. God comes in like a landlord and flashes on his brassy lamp.
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