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Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.

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
Grow
Grows
Called
Light
May
Take
Men
Corn
Creation

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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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I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
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I love the word warm. It is almost unbearable-- so moist and breathlike.
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Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
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this is no dream just my oily life where the people are alibis and the street is unfindable for an entire lifetime.
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Cinderella and the prince lived, they say, happily ever after, like two dolls in a museum case never bothered by diapers or dust, never arguing over the timing of an egg, never telling the same story twice.
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Maybe, although my heart is a kitten of butter, I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.
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Oh, darling, let your body in, let it tie you in, in comfort.
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It doesn't matter who my father was it matters who I remember he was.
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I would sell my life to avoid the pain that begins in the crib with its bars or perhaps with your first breath when the planets drill your future into you.
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I did not know the woman I would be nor that blood would bloom in me each month like an exotic flower, nor that children, two monuments, would break from between my legs.
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Man is a bird full of mud, I say aloud. And death looks on with a casual eye and scratches his anus.
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With this pen I take in hand my selves and with these dead disciples I will grapple. Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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Daylight is nobody's friend. God comes in like a landlord and flashes on his brassy lamp.
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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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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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Talk to me about sadness. I talk about it too much in my own head but I never mind others talking about it either I occasionally feel like I tremendously need others to talk about it as well.
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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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