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We are America. We are the coffin fillers. We are the grocers of death. We pack them in crates like cauliflowers.
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
Pack
Packs
Death
Crates
America
Cauliflower
Like
Grocers
Fillers
Coffin
Coffins
More quotes by Anne Sexton
Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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I imitatea memory of beliefthat I do not own.
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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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No matter whose bed you die in the bed will be yours for your voyage onto the surgical andiron of God.
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My heart is on a budget. It keeps me on the brink.
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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 went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine. God went out of my fingers. They became stone. My body became a side of mutton and despair roamed the slaughterhouse.
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Dead drunk is the term I think of, insensible, neither cool nor warm, without a head or a foot. To be drunk is to be intimate with a fool.
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A woman who writes feels too much.
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There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
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Now that I have written many words, and let out so many loves, for so many, and been altogether what I always was a woman of excess, of zeal and greed, I find the effort useless.
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Take a woman talking, purging herself with rhymes, drumming words out like a typewriter, planting words in you like grass seed. You'll move off.
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When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.
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this is no dream just my oily life where the people are alibis and the street is unfindable for an entire lifetime.
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Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
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Here in the hospital, I say,that is not my body, not my body.I am not here for the doctorsto read like a recipe.
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My safe, safe psychosis is broken. It was hard. It was made of stone. It covered my face like a mask. But it has cracked.
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Need is not quite belief.
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My objects dream and wear new costumes, compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.
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Those moments before a poem comes, when the heightened awareness comes over you, and you realize a poem is buried there somewhere, you prepare yourself. I run around, you know, kind of skipping around the house, marvelous elation. It’s as though I could fly.
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