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I sit at my desk each night with no place to go, opening the wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo, the whole U.S., its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones, through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.

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
Time
Maps
Zones
Like
Zone
Buffalo
Opening
Cemetery
Stones
Desk
Small
Routes
Cemeteries
Night
Desks
Capitals
Place
Veins
Milwaukee
Whole
Arbitrary
Wrinkled

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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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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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There is hope. There is hope everywhere. Today God give milk and I have the pail.
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Every time I get happy the Nana-hex comes through. Birds turn into plumber's tools, a sonnet turns into a dirty joke, a wind turns into a tracheotomy, a boat turns into a corpse.
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My ideas are a curse. They spring from a radical discontent with the awful order of things. I play clown. I play carpenter. I play nurse. I play witch.
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Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
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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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Nature is full of teeth that come in one by one, then decay, fall out.
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Need is not quite belief.
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Thumbs grow into my throat. I wear slaps like a spot of rouge.
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the marriage twists, holds firm, a sailor's knot.
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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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