Quote

My objects dream and wear new costumes, compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.

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
Hands
Bangs
Dream
Costumes
Seems
Compelled
Throat
Wear
Sea
Objects
Words

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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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All considerations for these human remains! They must have an escort! They are classified!
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Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.
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Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
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It doesn't matter who my father was it matters who I remember he was.
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I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
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Home is my Bethlehem, my succoring shelter, my mental hospital, my wife, my dam, my husband, my sir, my womb, my skull.
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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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women are born twice.
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In a dream you are never eighty.
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The ground has on its clothes. The trees poke out of sheets and each branch wears the sock of God.
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I can only sign over everything, the house, the dog, the ladders, the jewels, the soul, the family tree, the mailbox. Then I can sleep. Maybe.
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Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.
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I am a collection of dismantled almosts.
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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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I was spread out dailyand examined for flaws.
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I would sell my life to avoid the pain that begins in the crib with its bars or perhaps with your first breath when the planets drill your future into you.
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I grow old on my bitterness.
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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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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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