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All the oxygen of the world was in them. All the feet of the babies of the world were in them. All the crotches of the angels of the world were in them. All the morning kisses of Philadelphia were in them.

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
Happiness
Oxygen
Experience
Babies
World
Angels
Kissing
Angel
Baby
Feet
Kisses
Morning
Philadelphia

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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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The man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate.
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The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.
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My life has appeared unclothed in court, detail by detail, death-bone witness by death-bone witness, and I was shamed at the verdict.
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Don’t worry if they say you’re crazy. They said that about me and yet I was saner than all of them. I knew. No matter. You know. Insane or sane, you know. It’s a good thing to know - no matter what they call it.
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you see, we live in a cold climate and are not permitted to kiss on the street so I made up a song that wasn't true. I made up a song called Marriage.
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Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
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Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.
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O fallen angel, the companion within me, whisper something holy before you pinch me into the grave.
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Psychiatry is a dirty mirror.
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It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.
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Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.
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With this pen I take in hand my selves and with these dead disciples I will grapple. Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
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O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
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Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.
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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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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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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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Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.
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