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

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Oh thumb, I want a drink it is dark, where are the big people, when will I get there...?
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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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I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.
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My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.
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Thief!- how did you crawl into, crawl down alone into the death I wanted so badly and for so long.
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I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
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I raise my pelvis to God so that it may know the truth of how flowers smash through the long winter.
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With this pen I take in hand my selves and with these dead disciples I will grapple. Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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The fish are naked. The fish are always awake. They are the color of old spoons and caramels.
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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.
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She is so naked and singular. She is the sum of yourself and your dream. Climb her like a monument, step after step. She is solid.
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The snow has quietness in it no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.
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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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I sit at my desk each night with no place to go, opening the wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo, the whole U.S., its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones, through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
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I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
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When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.
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To love another is somethinglike prayer and it can't be planned, you just fallinto its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
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The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
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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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Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.
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