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No one to hate except the slim fish of memory that slides in and out of my brain.

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
Brain
Slim
Hate
Forgetfulness
Slides
Fish
Fishes
Memory
Except
Memories

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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Daisies in water are the longest lasting flower you can give to someone. Fact. Buy daisies. Not roses.
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But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.
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My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
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Women tell time by the body. They are like clocks. They are always fastened to the earth, listening for its small animal noises.
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Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
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I was only sitting here in my white study with the awful black words pushing me around.
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All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
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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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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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I burn the way money burns.
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All considerations for these human remains! They must have an escort! They are classified!
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The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not. The trade winds blow me, and I do not know where the land is the waves fold over each other they are in love with themselves sleeping in their own skin and I float over them and I do not know about tomorrow.
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When they turn the sun on again I'll plant children under it, I'll light up my soul with a match and let it sing.
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For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.
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For forty days, for forty nights Jesus put one foot in front of the other and the man he carried, if it was a man, became heavier and heavier.
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There is no word for time. Today we will not think to number another summer or watch its white bird into the ground.
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Take a woman talking, purging herself with rhymes, drumming words out like a typewriter, planting words in you like grass seed. You'll move off.
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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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Rats live on no evil star
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The joy that isn't shared dies young.
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