Quote

The silence is death. It comes each day with its shock to sit on my shoulder, a white bird, and peck at the black eyes and the vibrating red muscle of my mouth.

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
White
Shoulders
Black
Red
Comes
Mouth
Peck
Death
Mouths
Vibrating
Bird
Muscle
Silence
Shoulder
Eyes
Muscles
Eye
Shock

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The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
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I see myself as one would see another. I have been cut in two.
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And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of us will shout, My need is more desperate! and I will eat you slowly with kisses even though the killer in you has gotten out.
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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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In an old time there was a king as wise as a dictionary.
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I was the girl of the chain letter, the girl full of talk of coffins and keyholes, the one of the telephone bills, the wrinkled photo and the lost connections.
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Mood can be as important as sense.
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The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. Oh starry starry night! This is how I want to die.
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Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.
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Poetry to me is prayer.
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I leave you, home, when I'm ripped from the doorstep by commerce or fate. Then I submit to the awful subway of the world.
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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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You who have inhabited me in the deepest and most broken place, are going, going
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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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I would like to bury all the hating eyes under the sand somewhere.
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The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives
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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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It is June. I am tired of being brave.
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Why are all these dolls falling out of the sky? Was there a father? Or have the planets cut holes in their nets and let our childhood out, or are we the dolls themselves, born but never fed?
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Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.
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