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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!

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
Well
Larger
Think
Innocent
Thinking
Admire
Wings
Icarus
Ocean
Fog
Goes
Blast
Quite
Mythology
Wells
Sail

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There is joy in all: in the hair I brush each morning, in the Cannon towel, newly washed, that I rub my body with each morning.
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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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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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The fish are naked. The fish are always awake. They are the color of old spoons and caramels.
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My safe, safe psychosis is broken. It was hard. It was made of stone. It covered my face like a mask. But it has cracked.
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Somebody who should have been born is gone. Yes, woman, such logic will lead to loss without death. Or say what you meant, you coward . . . this baby that I bleed.
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Take adultery or theft. Merely sins. It is evil who dines on the soul, stretching out its long bone tongue. It is evil who tweezers my heart, picking out its atomic worms.
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I put the gold star up in the front window beside the flag. Alterations is what I know and what I did: hems, gussets and seams.
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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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Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.
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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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Then God spoke to me and said: People say only good things about Christmas. If they want to say something bad, they whisper.
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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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Of course the New Testament is very small. Its mouth opens four times as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster, yet somehow man-made.
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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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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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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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Rocks crumble, make new forms, oceans move the continents, mountains rise up and down like ghosts yet all is natural, all is change.
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To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.
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