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The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.

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
Fire
Littles
Little
Ablaze
Like
Thrush
Rocket
Rockets
Sky
Coming

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Poetry to me is prayer.
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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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Fee-fi-fo-fum - Now I'm borrowed. Now I'm numb.
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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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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.
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In an old time there was a king as wise as a dictionary.
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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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At six I lived in a graveyard full of dolls, avoiding myself, my body, the suspect in its grotesque house.
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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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The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives
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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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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 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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I've grown tired of love You are the trouble with me I watch you walk right by
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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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Look to your heart that flutters in and out like a moth. God is not indifferent to your need. You have a thousand prayers but God has one.
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I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.
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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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Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
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All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
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