Quote

The Saints come, as human as a mouth, with a bag of God in their backs, like a hunchback, they come, they come marching in.

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
Like
Saints
Bags
Saint
Mouth
Mouths
Human
Hunchback
Humans
Marching
Come
Backs

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.
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Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings
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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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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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All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
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I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.
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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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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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Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.
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I cannot walk an inch / without trying to walk to God.
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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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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.
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When the cow gives blood and the Christ is born we must all eat sacrifices. We must all eat beautiful women.
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My business is words. Words are like labels, or coins, or better, like swarming bees.
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I tied down time with a rope but it came back. Then I put my head in a death bowl and my eyes shut up like clams. They didn't come back.
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My faith is a great weight hung on a small wire, as doth the spider hang her baby on a thin web.
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When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
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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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As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
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Poems aren't postcards to send home.
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