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Blind with love, my daughter has cried nightly for horses, those long-necked marchers and churners that she has mastered, any and all, reigning them in like a circus hand.

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
Love
Horses
Like
Cried
Horse
Blind
Necked
Daughter
Reigning
Hand
Nightly
Hands
Mastered
Long
Circus

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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'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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True. There is a beautiful Jesus. He is frozen to his bones like a chunk of beef. How desperately he wanted to pull his arms in! How desperately I touch his vertical and horizontal axes! But I can't. Need is not quite belief.
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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. Oh starry starry night! This is how I want to die.
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The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
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And within the house ashes are being stuffed into my marriage, fury is lapping the walls, dishes crack on the shelves, a strangler needs my throat, the daughter has ceased to eat anything.
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Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.
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Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.
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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.
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I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.
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I would sell my life to avoid the pain that begins in the crib with its bars or perhaps with your first breath when the planets drill your future into you.
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Once I was a couple. I was my own king and queen with cheese and bread and rosé on the rocks of Rockport.
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One of my secret instructions to myself as a poet is Whatever you do, don't be boring.
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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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