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Jesus saw the multitudes were hungry and He said, Oh Lord, send down a short-order cook.

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
Christ
Cooks
Order
Send
Hungry
God
Saws
Short
Lord
Multitudes
Jesus
Cook

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My business is words. Words are like labels, or coins, or better, like swarming bees.
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Love your self's self where it lives.
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I think I've been writing black poems all along, wearing my white mask. I'm always the victim ... but no longer!
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It's all a matter of history. Brandy is no solace. Librium only lies me down like a dead snow queen. Yes! I am still the criminal.
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The Saints come, as human as a mouth, with a bag of God in their backs, like a hunchback, they come, they come marching in.
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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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As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
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The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.
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Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.
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I remember the stink of the liverwurst. How I was put on a platter and laid between the mayonnaise and the bacon. The rhythm of the refrigerator had been disturbed.
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Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.
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Someone is dead. Even the trees know it, those poor old dancers who come on lewdly, all pea-green scarfs and spine pole.
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life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.
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I try to take care and be gentle to them. Words and eggs must be handled with care. Once broken they are impossible things to repair.
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But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build. Twice I have so simply declared myself, have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his craft, his magic.
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Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.
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Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
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Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.
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Fee-fi-fo-fum - Now I'm borrowed. Now I'm numb.
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Every time I get happy the Nana-hex comes through. Birds turn into plumber's tools, a sonnet turns into a dirty joke, a wind turns into a tracheotomy, a boat turns into a corpse.
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