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

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I, in my brand new body, which was not a woman's yet, told the stars my questions and thought God could really see the heat and the painted light, elbows, knees, dreams, goodnight.
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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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Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn.
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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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All considerations for these human remains! They must have an escort! They are classified!
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I burn the way money burns.
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Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.
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The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not. The trade winds blow me, and I do not know where the land is the waves fold over each other they are in love with themselves sleeping in their own skin and I float over them and I do not know about tomorrow.
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Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
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And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
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It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious
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Don’t worry if they say you’re crazy. They said that about me and yet I was saner than all of them. I knew. No matter. You know. Insane or sane, you know. It’s a good thing to know - no matter what they call it.
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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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All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
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I think I've been writing black poems all along, wearing my white mask. I'm always the victim ... but no longer!
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Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind
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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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