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

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I brush my hair, waiting in the pain machine for my bones to get hard, for the soft, soft bones that were laid apart and were screwed together. They will knit. And the other corpse, the fractured heart, I feed it piecemeal, little chalice. I'm good to it.
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I am younger each year at the first snow.
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The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
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God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine.
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All who love have lied.
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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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My sleeping pill is white. It is a splendid pearl it floats me out of myself, my stung skin as alien as a loose bolt of cloth.
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All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
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God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.
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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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What's the point of fighting the dollars when all you need is a warm bed? When the dog barks you let him in. All we need is someone to let us in. And one other thing: to consider the lilies in the field.
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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.
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Come, my pretender, my fritter, my bubbler, my chicken biddy! Oh succulent one, it is but one turn in the road and I would be a cannibal!
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All the oxygen of the world was in them. All the feet of the babies of the world were in them. All the crotches of the angels of the world were in them. All the morning kisses of Philadelphia were in them.
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As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
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Fee-fi-fo-fum - Now I'm borrowed. Now I'm numb.
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Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle.
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She is so naked and singular. She is the sum of yourself and your dream. Climb her like a monument, step after step. She is solid.
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With this pen I take in hand my selves and with these dead disciples I will grapple. Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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