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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.

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
Baby
Spider
Small
Spiders
Faith
Doth
Great
Wire
Thin
Hung
Hang
Weight

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Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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I burn the way money burns.
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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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stop the darkness and its amputations and find the real McCoy in the private holiness of my hands.
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I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.
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Father, you died once, salted down at fifty-nine, packed down like a big snow angel, wasn't that enough?
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women are born twice.
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Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.
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I am your dwarf. I am the enemy within. I am the boss of your dreams. See. Your hand shakes. It is not palsy or booze. It is your Doppelganger trying to get out. Beware...Beware...
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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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Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.
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If you meet a cross-eyed person you must plunge into the grass, alongside the chilly ants, fish through the green fingernails and come up with the four-leaf clover.
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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.
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Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.
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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.
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What a lay me down this is with two pink, two orange, two green, two white goodnights.
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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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Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
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