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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
Aging
Head
Middle
Age
Rowing
Nineteen
Mature

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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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My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
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Yes, I know. Death sits with his key in my lock. Not one day is taken for granted. Even nursery rhymes have put me in hock.
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To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.
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I think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.
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I grow old on my bitterness.
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Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
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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 leave you, home, when I'm ripped from the doorstep by commerce or fate. Then I submit to the awful subway of the world.
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I tell it stories now and then and feed it images like honey. I will not speculate today with poems that think they're money.
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I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
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When someone kisses someone or flushes the toilet it is my other who sits in a ball and cries. My other beats a tin drum in my heart. My other hangs up laundry as I try to sleep. My other cries and cries and cries when I put on a cocktail dress.
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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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When the cow gives blood and the Christ is born we must all eat sacrifices. We must all eat beautiful women.
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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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I am younger each year at the first snow.
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Now that I have written many words, and let out so many loves, for so many, and been altogether what I always was a woman of excess, of zeal and greed, I find the effort useless.
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I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
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But even in a telephone booth evil can seep out of the receiver and we must cover it with a mattress, and then tear it from its roots and bury it, bury it.
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And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself
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