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

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My life has appeared unclothed in court, detail by detail, death-bone witness by death-bone witness, and I was shamed at the verdict.
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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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In an old time there was a king as wise as a dictionary.
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To be without God is to be a snake / who wants to swallow an elephant.
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I leave you, home, when I'm ripped from the doorstep by commerce or fate. Then I submit to the awful subway of the world.
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Frog has no nerves. Frog is as old as a cockroach. Frog is my father's genitals. Frog is a malformed doorknob. Frog is a soft bag of green.
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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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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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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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I suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room. Kaboom! Like a genie out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of the bedroom.
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Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
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To love another is somethinglike prayer and it can't be planned, you just fallinto its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
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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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Bless all useful objects, the spoons made of bone, the mattress I cook my dreams upon, the typewriter that is my church with an altar of keys always waiting.
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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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I see myself as one would see another. I have been cut in two.
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Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.
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Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle.
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My business is words. Words are like labels, or coins, or better, like swarming bees.
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Why are all these dolls falling out of the sky? Was there a father? Or have the planets cut holes in their nets and let our childhood out, or are we the dolls themselves, born but never fed?
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