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I was the girl of the chain letter, the girl full of talk of coffins and keyholes, the one of the telephone bills, the wrinkled photo and the lost connections.

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
Bills
Wrinkled
Connections
Coffins
Letters
Telephone
Full
Photo
Talk
Telephones
Girl
Chain
Lost
Letter
Chains
Keyholes

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You must be a poet, a lady of evil luck desiring to be what you are not, longing to be what you can only visit.
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[I] have fantasies of killing myself and thus being the powerful one not the powerless one.
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Fee-fi-fo-fum - Now I'm borrowed. Now I'm numb.
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Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
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Here in the hospital, I say,that is not my body, not my body.I am not here for the doctorsto read like a recipe.
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It's all a matter of history. Brandy is no solace. Librium only lies me down like a dead snow queen. Yes! I am still the criminal.
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To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.
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Bless all useful objects, the spoons made of bone, the mattress I cook my dreams upon, the typewriter that is my church with an altar of keys always waiting.
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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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Jewels! Today each twig is important, each ring, each infection, each form is all that the gods must have meant.
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Why are all these dolls falling out of the sky? Was there a father? Or have the planets cut holes in their nets and let our childhood out, or are we the dolls themselves, born but never fed?
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Take adultery or theft. Merely sins. It is evil who dines on the soul, stretching out its long bone tongue. It is evil who tweezers my heart, picking out its atomic worms.
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I have forgiven all the old actors for dying. A new one comes on with the same lines, like large white growths, in his mouth. The dancers come on from the wings, perfectly mated.
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It doesn't matter who my father was it matters who I remember he was.
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I said, the poets are there I hear them singing and lying around their round table and around me still.
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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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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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Oh thumb, I want a drink it is dark, where are the big people, when will I get there...?
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I am teaching... This year it's kind of like having a love affair with a rhinoceros.
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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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