Quote

I have a black look I do not like. It is a mask I try on. I migrate toward it and its frog sits on my lips and defecates.

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
Looks
Frogs
Trying
Sits
Like
Mask
Lips
Anger
Toward
Black
Migrate
Look
Frog

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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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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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I love you. You are closest to my heart, closer than any other human being. You are my extension. You are my prayer. You are my belief in God. For better or worse you inherit me.
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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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But even in a telephone booth evil can seep out of the receiver and we must cover it with a mattress, and then tear it from its roots and bury it, bury it.
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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.
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I did not know the woman I would be nor that blood would bloom in me each month like an exotic flower, nor that children, two monuments, would break from between my legs.
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Poems aren't postcards to send home.
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I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.
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I grow old on my bitterness.
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Someone is dead. Even the trees know it, those poor old dancers who come on lewdly, all pea-green scarfs and spine pole.
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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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I keep feeling that there isn't one poem being written by any one of us - or a book or anything like that. The whole life of us writers, the whole product I guess I mean, is the one long poem - a community effort if you will. It's all the same poem. It doesn't belong to any one writer - it's God's poem perhaps. Or God's people's poem.
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I love the word warm. It is almost unbearable-- so moist and breathlike.
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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.
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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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I think I've been writing black poems all along, wearing my white mask. I'm always the victim ... but no longer!
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Yes, I know. Death sits with his key in my lock. Not one day is taken for granted. Even nursery rhymes have put me in hock.
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