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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.

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
Boils
Eleven
Town
Towns
Silent
Stars
Dies
Night
Starry

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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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All day I've built a lifetime and now the sun sinks to undo 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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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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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 remember the stink of the liverwurst. How I was put on a platter and laid between the mayonnaise and the bacon. The rhythm of the refrigerator had been disturbed.
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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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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
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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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I brush my hair, waiting in the pain machine for my bones to get hard, for the soft, soft bones that were laid apart and were screwed together. They will knit. And the other corpse, the fractured heart, I feed it piecemeal, little chalice. I'm good to it.
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The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.
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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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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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Women tell time by the body. They are like clocks. They are always fastened to the earth, listening for its small animal noises.
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I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.
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The snow has quietness in it no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.
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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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The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
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I leave you, home, when I'm ripped from the doorstep by commerce or fate. Then I submit to the awful subway of the world.
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