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So I won't hang around in my hospital shift, repeating The Black Mass and all of it. I say Live, Live because of the sun, the dream, the excitable gift.

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
Gift
Sun
Mass
Excitable
Black
Repeating
Dream
Hospital
Around
Shift
Live
Hospitals
Life
Hang

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unless I can shake myself free of my dog, my flag, of my desk, my mind, I find life a bit of a drag. Not always, mind you. Usually I'm like my frying pan useful, graceful, sturdy and with no caper, no plan.
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I grow old on my bitterness.
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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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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 my love stays bitterly glowing, spasms of it will not sleep, and I am helpless and thirsty and need shade but there is no one to cover me- not even God.
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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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My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.
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And if I tried to give you something else, something outside myself, you would not know that the worst of anyone can be, finally, an accident of hope
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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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Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn.
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I am teaching... This year it's kind of like having a love affair with a rhinoceros.
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You must be a poet, a lady of evil luck desiring to be what you are not, longing to be what you can only visit.
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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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O starry night, This is how I want to die
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If you meet a cross-eyed person you must plunge into the grass, alongside the chilly ants, fish through the green fingernails and come up with the four-leaf clover.
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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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There is an animal inside me, clutching fast to my heart, a huge crab.
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think of innocent Icarus who is doing quite well: larger than a sail, over the fog and the blast of the plushy ocean, he goes. Admire his wings!
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