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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
Like
Breakfast
Longing
Satisfaction
Dies
Desire
Nothing
Whole
Love
Riddled

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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
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Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
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Love your self's self where it lives.
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To love another is somethinglike prayer and it can't be planned, you just fallinto its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
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After a disaster strikes, it can be very devastating and very challenging. You're going to need a lot of strength and energy, and the American Red Cross suggests you go for the high protein items.
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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!
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I who was a house full of bowel movement, I who was a defaced altar, I who wanted to crawl toward God could not move nor eat bread.
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Man is a bird full of mud, I say aloud. And death looks on with a casual eye and scratches his anus.
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My life has appeared unclothed in court, detail by detail, death-bone witness by death-bone witness, and I was shamed at the verdict.
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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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sorrow is easier than guilt.
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In a dream you are never eighty.
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O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
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I, in my brand new body, which was not a woman's yet, told the stars my questions and thought God could really see the heat and the painted light, elbows, knees, dreams, goodnight.
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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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Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.
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Maybe, although my heart is a kitten of butter, I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.
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Bless all useful objects, the spoons made of bone, the mattress I cook my dreams upon, the typewriter that is my church with an altar of keys always waiting.
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Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
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