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The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.

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
Reach
Perhaps
Stars
Death
Even
Pears
Wedding

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
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Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.
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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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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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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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I am not lazy. I am on the amphetamine of the soul. I am, each day, typing out the God my typewriter believes in.
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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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The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
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Daisies in water are the longest lasting flower you can give to someone. Fact. Buy daisies. Not roses.
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Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.
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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.
Anne Sexton
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Frog has no nerves. Frog is as old as a cockroach. Frog is my father's genitals. Frog is a malformed doorknob. Frog is a soft bag of green.
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In a dream you are never eighty.
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Home is my Bethlehem, my succoring shelter, my mental hospital, my wife, my dam, my husband, my sir, my womb, my skull.
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And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
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My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
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I lay there silently, hoarding my small dignity. I did not ask about the gate or the closet. I did not question the bedtime ritual where, on the cold bathroom tiles, I was spread out daily and examined for flaws. I did not know that my bones, those solids, those pieces of sculpture would not splinter.
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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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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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When someone kisses someone or flushes the toilet it is my other who sits in a ball and cries. My other beats a tin drum in my heart. My other hangs up laundry as I try to sleep. My other cries and cries and cries when I put on a cocktail dress.
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