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
Wear
Sea
Objects
Words
Hands
Bangs
Dream
Costumes
Seems
Compelled
Throat

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A woman / who loves a woman / is forever young.
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In a dream you are never eighty.
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I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.
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I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.
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I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.
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I would like to bury all the hating eyes under the sand somewhere.
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I said, the poets are there I hear them singing and lying around their round table and around me still.
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Watch out for love (unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes), it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be heard and none of your running will run.
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Abundance is scooped from abundance yet abundance remains.
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Let there be seasons so that our tongues will be rich in asparagus and limes.
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It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious
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O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
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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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Dead drunk is the term I think of, insensible, neither cool nor warm, without a head or a foot. To be drunk is to be intimate with a fool.
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I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.
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I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.
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Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
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...became a woman who learned her own skin and dug into her soul and found it full.
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All who love have lied.
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They [daisies] are my favorite flower. There is something innocent and vulnerable about them as if they thanked you for admiring them.
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