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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
Men
Corn
Creation
Grow
Grows
Called
Light
May
Take

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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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And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...
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The trouble with therapy is that it makes life go backwards.
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I grow old on my bitterness.
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Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.
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we do not explain my husband's insane abuse and we do not say why your wild-haired wife has fled or that my father opened like a walnut and then was dead. Your palms fold over me like knees. Love is the only use.
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Watch out for love (unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes), it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be heard and none of your running will run.
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As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
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And within the house ashes are being stuffed into my marriage, fury is lapping the walls, dishes crack on the shelves, a strangler needs my throat, the daughter has ceased to eat anything.
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Even so, I must admire your skill. You are so gracefully insane.
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But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build. Twice I have so simply declared myself, have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his craft, his magic.
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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings
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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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It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.
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I raise my pelvis to God so that it may know the truth of how flowers smash through the long winter.
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Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.
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