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
Seems
Compelled
Throat
Wear
Sea
Objects
Words
Hands
Bangs
Dream
Costumes

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The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
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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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Rocks crumble, make new forms, oceans move the continents, mountains rise up and down like ghosts yet all is natural, all is change.
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Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.
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I see myself as one would see another. I have been cut in two.
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The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not. The trade winds blow me, and I do not know where the land is the waves fold over each other they are in love with themselves sleeping in their own skin and I float over them and I do not know about tomorrow.
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The family story tells, and it was told true, of my great-grandfather who begat eight genius children and bought twelve almost new grand pianos. He left a considerable estate when he died.
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Despite my asbestos gloves, the cough is filling me with black, and a red powder seeps through my veins.
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The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
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life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.
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The joy that isn't shared dies young.
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I would like to bury all the hating eyes under the sand somewhere.
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I suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room. Kaboom! Like a genie out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of the bedroom.
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God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.
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Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind
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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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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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I was spread out dailyand examined for flaws.
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We are all writing God's poem.
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Suddenly I'm not half the girl I used to be. There's a shadow hanging over me . . . From me to you out of my electric devil.
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