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To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.

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
Dies
Desire
Nothing
Whole
Love
Riddled
Like
Breakfast
Longing
Satisfaction

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When the cow gives blood and the Christ is born we must all eat sacrifices. We must all eat beautiful women.
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Letters are false really - they are expressions of the way you wish you were instead of the way you are.
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It's all a matter of history. Brandy is no solace. Librium only lies me down like a dead snow queen. Yes! I am still the criminal.
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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself
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Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse.
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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious
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I try to take care and be gentle to them. Words and eggs must be handled with care. Once broken they are impossible things to repair.
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God owns heaven but He craves the earth.
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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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The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
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Images are probably the most important part of the poem. First of all you want to tell a story, but images are what are going to shore it up and get to the heart of the matter.
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Oh sharp diamond, my mother! I could not count the cost of all your faces, your moods that present that I lost. Sweet girl, my deathbed, my jewel-fingered lady...
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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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I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
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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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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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I am younger each year at the first snow. When I see it, suddenly, in the air, all little and white and moving then I am in love again and very young and I believe everything.
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