Quote

I raise my pelvis to God so that it may know the truth of how flowers smash through the long winter.

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
Faith
Smash
Truth
Fertility
May
Raise
Long
Flowers
Raises
Winter
Sex
Flower
Pelvis

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Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
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Then God spoke to me and said: People say only good things about Christmas. If they want to say something bad, they whisper.
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No matter whose bed you die in the bed will be yours for your voyage onto the surgical andiron of God.
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I am tearing the feathers out of the pillows, waiting, waiting for Daddy to come home and stuff me so full of our infected child that I turn invisible, but married, at last.
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Thumbs grow into my throat. I wear slaps like a spot of rouge.
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Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings
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Somebody who should have been born is gone. Yes, woman, such logic will lead to loss without death. Or say what you meant, you coward . . . this baby that I bleed.
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I who was a house full of bowel movement, I who was a defaced altar, I who wanted to crawl toward God could not move nor eat bread.
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The joy that isn't shared dies young.
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Earth, earthriding your merry-go-roundtoward extinction,right to the rootsthickening the oceans like gravy,festering in your caves,you are becoming a latrine.
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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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I am crazy as hell, but I know it. And knowing it is a kind of sanity that makes the sickness worse.
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The snow has quietness in it no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.
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Now I am just an elderly lady who is full of spleen, who humps around greater Boston in a God-awful hat, who never lived and yet outlived her time, hating men and dogs and Democrats.
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Poetry to me is prayer.
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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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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
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I suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room. Kaboom! Like a genie out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of the bedroom.
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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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