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For forty days, for forty nights Jesus put one foot in front of the other and the man he carried, if it was a man, became heavier and heavier.

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
Front
Became
Heavier
Feet
Nights
Days
Carried
Religion
Foot
Jesus
Forty
Night
God
Men
Fronts

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As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
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Psychiatry is a dirty mirror.
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Our checks are pale. Our wallets are invalids. Past due, past due, is what our bills are saying and yet we kiss in every corner, scuffing the dust and the cat. Love rises like bread as we go bust.
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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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My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
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Father, you died once, salted down at fifty-nine, packed down like a big snow angel, wasn't that enough?
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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 wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
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Talk to me about sadness. I talk about it too much in my own head but I never mind others talking about it either I occasionally feel like I tremendously need others to talk about it as well.
Anne Sexton
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Women tell time by the body. They are like clocks. They are always fastened to the earth, listening for its small animal noises.
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I am not lazy. I am on the amphetamine of the soul. I am, each day, typing out the God my typewriter believes in.
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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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The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
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Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.
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God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.
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I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.
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My heart is on a budget. It keeps me on the brink.
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Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.
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Every time I get happy the Nana-hex comes through. Birds turn into plumber's tools, a sonnet turns into a dirty joke, a wind turns into a tracheotomy, a boat turns into a corpse.
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The sanest thing in this world is love.
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