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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
Grows
Called
Light
May
Take
Men
Corn
Creation
Grow

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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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Oh thumb, I want a drink it is dark, where are the big people, when will I get there...?
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My life has appeared unclothed in court, detail by detail, death-bone witness by death-bone witness, and I was shamed at the verdict.
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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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There is hope. There is hope everywhere. Today God give milk and I have the pail.
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My sleeping pill is white. It is a splendid pearl it floats me out of myself, my stung skin as alien as a loose bolt of cloth.
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women are born twice.
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Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
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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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The ground has on its clothes. The trees poke out of sheets and each branch wears the sock of God.
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My objects dream and wear new costumes, compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.
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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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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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Perhaps I am no one. True, I have a body and I cannot escape from it. I would like to fly out of my head, but that is out of the question.
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Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.
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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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No matter whose bed you die in the bed will be yours for your voyage onto the surgical andiron of God.
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The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
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If the doctors cure then the sun sees it. If the doctors kill then the earth hides it. The doctors should fear arrogance more than cardiac arrest.
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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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