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

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... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
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The man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate.
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When the cow gives blood and the Christ is born we must all eat sacrifices. We must all eat beautiful women.
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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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Jesus saw the multitudes were hungry and He said, Oh Lord, send down a short-order cook.
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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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I am not lazy. I am on the amphetamine of the soul. I am, each day, typing out the God my typewriter believes in.
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Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
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As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
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I have been cut in two.
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It is a dead heart. It is inside of me. It is a stranger yet once it was agreeable, opening and closing like a clam.
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Come, my pretender, my fritter, my bubbler, my chicken biddy! Oh succulent one, it is but one turn in the road and I would be a cannibal!
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All the oxygen of the world was in them. All the feet of the babies of the world were in them. All the crotches of the angels of the world were in them. All the morning kisses of Philadelphia were in them.
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Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.
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Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
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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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I was the girl of the chain letter, the girl full of talk of coffins and keyholes, the one of the telephone bills, the wrinkled photo and the lost connections.
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being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions
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Letters are false really - they are expressions of the way you wish you were instead of the way you are.
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The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
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