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It is in the small things we see it. The child's first step, as awesome as an earthquake. The first time you rode a bike, wallowing up the sidewalk.
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
Time
Courage
Wallowing
Steps
Rode
Small
Earthquake
Child
Sidewalk
Firsts
Earthquakes
First
Bike
Children
Awesome
Things
Step
More quotes by Anne Sexton
Images are probably the most important part of the poem. First of all you want to tell a story, but images are what are going to shore it up and get to the heart of the matter.
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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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Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth.
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The fish are naked. The fish are always awake. They are the color of old spoons and caramels.
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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse.
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life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.
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In an old time there was a king as wise as a dictionary.
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Letters are false really - they are expressions of the way you wish you were instead of the way you are.
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Frog has no nerves. Frog is as old as a cockroach. Frog is my father's genitals. Frog is a malformed doorknob. Frog is a soft bag of green.
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I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
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I sit at my desk each night with no place to go, opening the wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo, the whole U.S., its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones, through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
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Blind with love, my daughter has cried nightly for horses, those long-necked marchers and churners that she has mastered, any and all, reigning them in like a circus hand.
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I burn the way money burns.
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I love you. You are closest to my heart, closer than any other human being. You are my extension. You are my prayer. You are my belief in God. For better or worse you inherit me.
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There is joy in all: in the hair I brush each morning, in the Cannon towel, newly washed, that I rub my body with each morning.
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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 beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.
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It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious
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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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