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Please God, we're all right here. Please leave us alone. Don't send death in his fat red suit and his ho-ho baritone.

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
Red
God
Baritone
Please
Baritones
Leave
Suit
Alone
Contentment
Death
Fats
Right
Suits
Send

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The snow has quietness in it no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.
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And thus Snow White became the prince's bride. The wicked queen was invited to the wedding feast and when she arrived there were red-hot iron shoes, in the manner of red-hot roller skates, clamped upon her feet.
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When someone kisses someone or flushes the toilet it is my other who sits in a ball and cries. My other beats a tin drum in my heart. My other hangs up laundry as I try to sleep. My other cries and cries and cries when I put on a cocktail dress.
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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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Poets are sitting in my kitchen. Why do these poets lie? Why do children get children and Did you hear what it said?
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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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Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.
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I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
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think of innocent Icarus who is doing quite well: larger than a sail, over the fog and the blast of the plushy ocean, he goes. Admire his wings!
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life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.
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And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
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What's missing is the eyeballs in each of us, but it doesn't matter because you've got the bucks, the bucks, the bucks.
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I keep feeling that there isn't one poem being written by any one of us - or a book or anything like that. The whole life of us writers, the whole product I guess I mean, is the one long poem - a community effort if you will. It's all the same poem. It doesn't belong to any one writer - it's God's poem perhaps. Or God's people's poem.
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Once I was a couple. I was my own king and queen with cheese and bread and rosé on the rocks of Rockport.
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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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My ideas are a curse. They spring from a radical discontent with the awful order of things. I play clown. I play carpenter. I play nurse. I play witch.
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My faith is a great weight hung on a small wire, as doth the spider hang her baby on a thin web.
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... and my love stays bitterly glowing, spasms of it will not sleep, and I am helpless and thirsty and need shade but there is no one to cover me- not even God.
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And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...
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There is no word for time. Today we will not think to number another summer or watch its white bird into the ground.
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