Quote

I who was a house full of bowel movement, I who was a defaced altar, I who wanted to crawl toward God could not move nor eat bread.

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
Move
Defaced
Movement
Bowel
Full
Crawl
Religion
Altar
Moving
Altars
House
Bread
Wanted
God
Toward

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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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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Daylight is nobody's friend. God comes in like a landlord and flashes on his brassy lamp.
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Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
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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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All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
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To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.
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Home is my Bethlehem, my succoring shelter, my mental hospital, my wife, my dam, my husband, my sir, my womb, my skull.
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I think I've been writing black poems all along, wearing my white mask. I'm always the victim ... but no longer!
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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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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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My life has appeared unclothed in court, detail by detail, death-bone witness by death-bone witness, and I was shamed at the verdict.
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I have a black look I do not like. It is a mask I try on. I migrate toward it and its frog sits on my lips and defecates.
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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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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.
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Why are all these dolls falling out of the sky? Was there a father? Or have the planets cut holes in their nets and let our childhood out, or are we the dolls themselves, born but never fed?
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Letters are false really - they are expressions of the way you wish you were instead of the way you are.
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Thumbs grow into my throat. I wear slaps like a spot of rouge.
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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.
Anne Sexton
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O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
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