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

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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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What's the point of fighting the dollars when all you need is a warm bed? When the dog barks you let him in. All we need is someone to let us in. And one other thing: to consider the lilies in the field.
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this is no dream just my oily life where the people are alibis and the street is unfindable for an entire lifetime.
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If you meet a cross-eyed person you must plunge into the grass, alongside the chilly ants, fish through the green fingernails and come up with the four-leaf clover.
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Letters are false really - they are expressions of the way you wish you were instead of the way you are.
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I see myself as one would see another. I have been cut in two.
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Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
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The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.
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Need is not quite belief.
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Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
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Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.
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Thumbs grow into my throat. I wear slaps like a spot of rouge.
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Rats live on no evil star
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God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine. God went out of my fingers. They became stone. My body became a side of mutton and despair roamed the slaughterhouse.
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it was my first doll that water went into and water came out of much earlier it was the diaper I wore and the dirt thereof and my mother hating me for it
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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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Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.
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Our checks are pale. Our wallets are invalids. Past due, past due, is what our bills are saying and yet we kiss in every corner, scuffing the dust and the cat. Love rises like bread as we go bust.
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... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
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I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
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