Quote

But even in a telephone booth evil can seep out of the receiver and we must cover it with a mattress, and then tear it from its roots and bury it, bury it.

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
Cover
Mattress
Roots
Mattresses
Tears
Booth
Evil
Receiver
Must
Bury
Even
Telephone
Telephones
Tear
Seep

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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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Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
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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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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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When someone kisses someone or flushes the toilet it is my other who sits in a ball and cries. My other beats a tin drum in my heart. My other hangs up laundry as I try to sleep. My other cries and cries and cries when I put on a cocktail dress.
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With this pen I take in hand my selves and with these dead disciples I will grapple. Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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And thus Snow White became the prince's bride. The wicked queen was invited to the wedding feast and when she arrived there were red-hot iron shoes, in the manner of red-hot roller skates, clamped upon her feet.
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No matter whose bed you die in the bed will be yours for your voyage onto the surgical andiron of God.
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think of innocent Icarus who is doing quite well: larger than a sail, over the fog and the blast of the plushy ocean, he goes. Admire his wings!
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I try to take care and be gentle to them. Words and eggs must be handled with care. Once broken they are impossible things to repair.
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You must be a poet, a lady of evil luck desiring to be what you are not, longing to be what you can only visit.
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Father, you died once, salted down at fifty-nine, packed down like a big snow angel, wasn't that enough?
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There is no word for time. Today we will not think to number another summer or watch its white bird into the ground.
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Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.
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My life has appeared unclothed in court, detail by detail, death-bone witness by death-bone witness, and I was shamed at the verdict.
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life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.
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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.
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Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
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You who have inhabited me in the deepest and most broken place, are going, going
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