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Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.

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
Mature
Aging
Head
Middle
Age
Rowing
Nineteen

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When they turn the sun on again I'll plant children under it, I'll light up my soul with a match and let it sing.
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I will be steel! I will build a steel bridge over my need! I will build a bomb shelter over my heart! But my future is a secret. It is as shy as a mole.
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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 am teaching... This year it's kind of like having a love affair with a rhinoceros.
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The boys and girls are one tonight. They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. They take off shoes. They turn off the light. The glimmering creatures are full of lies. They are eating each other. They are overfed. At night, alone, I marry the bed.
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Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
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We are all writing God's poem.
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The sky breaks. It sags and breathes upon my face. in the presence of mine enemies, mine enemies The world is full of enemies. There is no safe place.
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At six I lived in a graveyard full of dolls, avoiding myself, my body, the suspect in its grotesque house.
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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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I love you. You are closest to my heart, closer than any other human being. You are my extension. You are my prayer. You are my belief in God. For better or worse you inherit me.
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My safe, safe psychosis is broken. It was hard. It was made of stone. It covered my face like a mask. But it has cracked.
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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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And within the house ashes are being stuffed into my marriage, fury is lapping the walls, dishes crack on the shelves, a strangler needs my throat, the daughter has ceased to eat anything.
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women are born twice.
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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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Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.
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I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
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The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.
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The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
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