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

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[I] have fantasies of killing myself and thus being the powerful one not the powerless one.
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We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!
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As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
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Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
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I find now, swallowing one teaspoon of pain, that it drops downward to the past where it mixes with last year’s cupful and downward into a decade’s quart and downward into a lifetime’s ocean. I alternate treading water and deadman’s float.
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Perhaps I am no one. True, I have a body and I cannot escape from it. I would like to fly out of my head, but that is out of the question.
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Jewels! Today each twig is important, each ring, each infection, each form is all that the gods must have meant.
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I would like to think that no one would die anymore if we all believed in daisies but the worms know better, don't they? They slide into the ear of a corpse and listen to his great sigh.
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Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.
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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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Don’t worry if they say you’re crazy. They said that about me and yet I was saner than all of them. I knew. No matter. You know. Insane or sane, you know. It’s a good thing to know - no matter what they call it.
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In a dream you are never eighty.
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All considerations for these human remains! They must have an escort! They are classified!
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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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It is in the small things we see it. The child's first step, as awesome as an earthquake. The first time you rode a bike, wallowing up the sidewalk.
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Someone is dead. Even the trees know it, those poor old dancers who come on lewdly, all pea-green scarfs and spine pole.
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The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
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It doesn't matter who my father was it matters who I remember he was.
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So I won't hang around in my hospital shift, repeating The Black Mass and all of it. I say Live, Live because of the sun, the dream, the excitable gift.
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