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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
May
Take
Men
Corn
Creation
Grow
Grows
Called
Light

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When someone kisses someone or flushes the toilet it is my other who sits in a ball and cries. My other beats a tin drum in my heart. My other hangs up laundry as I try to sleep. My other cries and cries and cries when I put on a cocktail dress.
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I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
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To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.
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All I wanted was a little piece of life, to be married, to have children.... I was trying my damnedest to lead a conventional life, for that was how I was brought up, and it was what my husband wanted of me. But one can't build little white picket fences to keep the nightmares out.
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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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I was spread out dailyand examined for flaws.
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Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
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The ground has on its clothes. The trees poke out of sheets and each branch wears the sock of God.
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O starry night, This is how I want to die
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But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.
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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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After a disaster strikes, it can be very devastating and very challenging. You're going to need a lot of strength and energy, and the American Red Cross suggests you go for the high protein items.
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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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Father, you died once, salted down at fifty-nine, packed down like a big snow angel, wasn't that enough?
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I'll Vacuum up my stale hair, I'll pay all my neighbors' bad debts, I'll write a poem called Yellow and put my lips down to drink it up.
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I keep feeling that there isn't one poem being written by any one of us - or a book or anything like that. The whole life of us writers, the whole product I guess I mean, is the one long poem - a community effort if you will. It's all the same poem. It doesn't belong to any one writer - it's God's poem perhaps. Or God's people's poem.
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You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.
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To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.
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Now that I have written many words, and let out so many loves, for so many, and been altogether what I always was a woman of excess, of zeal and greed, I find the effort useless.
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The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
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