Quote

What's the point of fighting the dollars when all you need is a warm bed? When the dog barks you let him in. All we need is someone to let us in. And one other thing: to consider the lilies in the field.

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
Need
Field
Needs
Dollars
Thing
Consider
Life
Dog
Barks
Fields
Lilies
Fighting
Bark
Point
Bed
Someone
Warm

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And thus Snow White became the prince's bride. The wicked queen was invited to the wedding feast and when she arrived there were red-hot iron shoes, in the manner of red-hot roller skates, clamped upon her feet.
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The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
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Someone is dead. Even the trees know it, those poor old dancers who come on lewdly, all pea-green scarfs and spine pole.
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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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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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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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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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Daisies in water are the longest lasting flower you can give to someone. Fact. Buy daisies. Not roses.
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I who was a house full of bowel movement, I who was a defaced altar, I who wanted to crawl toward God could not move nor eat bread.
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The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
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What's missing is the eyeballs in each of us, but it doesn't matter because you've got the bucks, the bucks, the bucks.
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I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
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Oh sharp diamond, my mother! I could not count the cost of all your faces, your moods that present that I lost. Sweet girl, my deathbed, my jewel-fingered lady...
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Need is not quite belief.
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Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.
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Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.
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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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The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.
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