Quote

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

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I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
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Rats live on no evil star
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O starry night, This is how I want to die
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Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
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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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Earth, earthriding your merry-go-roundtoward extinction,right to the rootsthickening the oceans like gravy,festering in your caves,you are becoming a latrine.
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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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To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.
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Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
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I, in my brand new body, which was not a woman's yet, told the stars my questions and thought God could really see the heat and the painted light, elbows, knees, dreams, goodnight.
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The man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate.
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I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
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Abundance is scooped from abundance yet abundance remains.
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And if I tried to give you something else, something outside myself, you would not know that the worst of anyone can be, finally, an accident of hope
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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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Somebody who should have been born is gone. Yes, woman, such logic will lead to loss without death. Or say what you meant, you coward . . . this baby that I bleed.
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Oh, darling, let your body in, let it tie you in, in comfort.
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I've grown tired of love You are the trouble with me I watch you walk right by
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I am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?
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Poems aren't postcards to send home.
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