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

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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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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 am teaching... This year it's kind of like having a love affair with a rhinoceros.
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I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
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Even so, I must admire your skill. You are so gracefully insane.
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I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
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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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When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
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The joy that isn't shared dies young.
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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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In a letter (no matter how quickly it is written or honestly or freely or lovingly) it is more possible to be loving and lovable, more possible to reach out and to take in ... I feel I have somehow deceived you into thinking this is really a human relationship. It is a letter relationship between humans.
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I'll Vacuum up my stale hair, I'll pay all my neighbors' bad debts, I'll write a poem called Yellow and put my lips down to drink it up.
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I think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.
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women are born twice.
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I like you your eyes are full of language. [Letter to Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]
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I am tearing the feathers out of the pillows, waiting, waiting for Daddy to come home and stuff me so full of our infected child that I turn invisible, but married, at last.
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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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sorrow is easier than guilt.
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O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
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All who love have lied.
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