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

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[I] have fantasies of killing myself and thus being the powerful one not the powerless one.
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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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I think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.
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Rocks crumble, make new forms, oceans move the continents, mountains rise up and down like ghosts yet all is natural, all is change.
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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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This is what poems are: with mercy for the greedy, they are the tongue's wrangle, the world's pottage, the rat's star.
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There is a good look that I wear like a blood clot. I have sewn it over my left breast. I have made a vocation of it.
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Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.
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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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Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.
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Somebody who should have been born is gone. Yes, woman, such logic will lead to loss without death. Or say what you meant, you coward . . . this baby that I bleed.
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So I won't hang around in my hospital shift, repeating The Black Mass and all of it. I say Live, Live because of the sun, the dream, the excitable gift.
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I am younger each year at the first snow.
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What's the point of fighting the dollars when all you need is a warm bed? When the dog barks you let him in. All we need is someone to let us in. And one other thing: to consider the lilies in the field.
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God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine.
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No matter whose bed you die in the bed will be yours for your voyage onto the surgical andiron of God.
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My sleeping pill is white. It is a splendid pearl it floats me out of myself, my stung skin as alien as a loose bolt of cloth.
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My heart is on a budget. It keeps me on the brink.
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Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
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... man is eating the earth up like a candy bar.
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