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Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle.

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
Children
Tremble
Thumb
Teen
Motorcycle
Thumbs
Adolescence
Maturity
Cribs
Age
Whirling

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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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No one to hate except the slim fish of memory that slides in and out of my brain.
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I tell it stories now and then and feed it images like honey. I will not speculate today with poems that think they're money.
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I am younger each year at the first snow.
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God owns heaven but He craves the earth.
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In a letter (no matter how quickly it is written or honestly or freely or lovingly) it is more possible to be loving and lovable, more possible to reach out and to take in ... I feel I have somehow deceived you into thinking this is really a human relationship. It is a letter relationship between humans.
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As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
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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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Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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I burn the way money burns.
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Need is not quite belief.
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Love? Be it man. Be it woman. It must be a wave you want to glide in on, give your body to it, give your laugh to it, give, when the gravelly sand takes you, your tears to the land. To love another is something like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
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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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True. There is a beautiful Jesus. He is frozen to his bones like a chunk of beef. How desperately he wanted to pull his arms in! How desperately I touch his vertical and horizontal axes! But I can't. Need is not quite belief.
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life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.
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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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But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.
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Images are probably the most important part of the poem. First of all you want to tell a story, but images are what are going to shore it up and get to the heart of the matter.
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this is no dream just my oily life where the people are alibis and the street is unfindable for an entire lifetime.
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