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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
Thumbs
Adolescence
Maturity
Cribs
Age
Whirling
Children
Tremble
Thumb
Teen
Motorcycle

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Watch out for love (unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes), it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be heard and none of your running will run.
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[I] have fantasies of killing myself and thus being the powerful one not the powerless one.
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I am crazy as hell, but I know it. And knowing it is a kind of sanity that makes the sickness worse.
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When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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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 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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I'm the crazy one who thinks that words reach people.
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Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse.
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Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.
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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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All I wanted was a little piece of life, to be married, to have children.... I was trying my damnedest to lead a conventional life, for that was how I was brought up, and it was what my husband wanted of me. But one can't build little white picket fences to keep the nightmares out.
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For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.
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I'm hunting for the truth. It might be a kind of poetic truth, and not just a factual one, because behind everything that happens to you, there is another truth, a secret life.
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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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Oh sharp diamond, my mother! I could not count the cost of all your faces, your moods that present that I lost. Sweet girl, my deathbed, my jewel-fingered lady...
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We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!
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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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This is what poems are: with mercy for the greedy, they are the tongue's wrangle, the world's pottage, the rat's star.
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