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God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine.

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
God
Sea
Sun
Became
Went
Religion
Like
Sandpaper
Dried

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All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
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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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women are born twice.
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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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Now I am just an elderly lady who is full of spleen, who humps around greater Boston in a God-awful hat, who never lived and yet outlived her time, hating men and dogs and Democrats.
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Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks.
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Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse.
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I imitatea memory of beliefthat I do not own.
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My faith is a great weight hung on a small wire, as doth the spider hang her baby on a thin web.
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Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.
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There is joy in all: in the hair I brush each morning, in the Cannon towel, newly washed, that I rub my body with each morning.
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Don't bite till you know if it's bread or stone.
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think of innocent Icarus who is doing quite well: larger than a sail, over the fog and the blast of the plushy ocean, he goes. Admire his wings!
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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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One of my secret instructions to myself as a poet is Whatever you do, don't be boring.
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Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.
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God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.
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I was the girl of the chain letter, the girl full of talk of coffins and keyholes, the one of the telephone bills, the wrinkled photo and the lost connections.
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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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Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings
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