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Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse.

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
Hand
White
Mild
Everyone
Mouse
Inspirational
Stays
Left
Mice
Hands
Muse
Good
Nurse
Except

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Rejoice with the day lily for it is born for a day to live by the mailbox and glorify the roadside
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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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Then God spoke to me and said: People say only good things about Christmas. If they want to say something bad, they whisper.
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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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I like you your eyes are full of language. [Letter to Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]
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Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.
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My heart is on a budget. It keeps me on the brink.
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Perhaps I am no one. True, I have a body and I cannot escape from it. I would like to fly out of my head, but that is out of the question.
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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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Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
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We are America. We are the coffin fillers. We are the grocers of death. We pack them in crates like cauliflowers.
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And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself
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All who love have lied.
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Yes, I know. Death sits with his key in my lock. Not one day is taken for granted. Even nursery rhymes have put me in hock.
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I'm an empress. I wear an apron. My typewriter writes. It didn't break the way it warned. Even crazy, I'm as nice as a chocolate bar.
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The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. Oh starry starry night! This is how I want to die.
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My safe, safe psychosis is broken. It was hard. It was made of stone. It covered my face like a mask. But it has cracked.
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One of my secret instructions to myself as a poet is Whatever you do, don't be boring.
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God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine. God went out of my fingers. They became stone. My body became a side of mutton and despair roamed the slaughterhouse.
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There is a good look that I wear like a blood clot. I have sewn it over my left breast. I have made a vocation of it.
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