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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
Middle
Age
Rowing
Nineteen
Mature
Aging
Head

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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It's all a matter of history. Brandy is no solace. Librium only lies me down like a dead snow queen. Yes! I am still the criminal.
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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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Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.
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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 can only sign over everything, the house, the dog, the ladders, the jewels, the soul, the family tree, the mailbox. Then I can sleep. Maybe.
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Don't bite till you know if it's bread or stone.
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But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build. Twice I have so simply declared myself, have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his craft, his magic.
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Someone is dead. Even the trees know it, those poor old dancers who come on lewdly, all pea-green scarfs and spine pole.
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Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.
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Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
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As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
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Once I was a couple. I was my own king and queen with cheese and bread and rosé on the rocks of Rockport.
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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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Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.
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All day I've built a lifetime and now the sun sinks to undo it.
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I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
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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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Love your self's self where it lives.
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Poets are sitting in my kitchen. Why do these poets lie? Why do children get children and Did you hear what it said?
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The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
Anne Sexton