Quote

Rocks crumble, make new forms, oceans move the continents, mountains rise up and down like ghosts yet all is natural, all is change.

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
Nature
Rise
Form
Forms
Change
Mountain
Crumble
Make
Ocean
Oceans
Like
Rocks
Ghosts
Move
Continents
Natural
Mountains
Moving
Ghost

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I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.
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Please God, we're all right here. Please leave us alone. Don't send death in his fat red suit and his ho-ho baritone.
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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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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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I am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?
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I'll Vacuum up my stale hair, I'll pay all my neighbors' bad debts, I'll write a poem called Yellow and put my lips down to drink it up.
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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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I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.
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Thief!- how did you crawl into, crawl down alone into the death I wanted so badly and for so long.
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My eyes, those sluts, those whores, would play no more.
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I brush my hair, waiting in the pain machine for my bones to get hard, for the soft, soft bones that were laid apart and were screwed together. They will knit. And the other corpse, the fractured heart, I feed it piecemeal, little chalice. I'm good to it.
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They [daisies] are my favorite flower. There is something innocent and vulnerable about them as if they thanked you for admiring them.
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I lay there silently, hoarding my small dignity. I did not ask about the gate or the closet. I did not question the bedtime ritual where, on the cold bathroom tiles, I was spread out daily and examined for flaws. I did not know that my bones, those solids, those pieces of sculpture would not splinter.
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Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.
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Jewels! Today each twig is important, each ring, each infection, each form is all that the gods must have meant.
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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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It is June. I am tired of being brave.
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There is joy in all: in the hair I brush each morning, in the Cannon towel, newly washed, that I rub my body with each morning.
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All in all, I'd say, the world is strangling.
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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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