Quote

I remember the stink of the liverwurst. How I was put on a platter and laid between the mayonnaise and the bacon. The rhythm of the refrigerator had been disturbed.

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
Eating
Mayonnaise
Remember
Refrigerator
Refrigerators
Bacon
Stink
Disturbed
Laid
Rhythm
Platter

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... and my love stays bitterly glowing, spasms of it will not sleep, and I am helpless and thirsty and need shade but there is no one to cover me- not even God.
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I grow old on my bitterness.
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To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.
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There is hope. There is hope everywhere. Today God give milk and I have the pail.
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My business is words. Words are like labels, or coins, or better, like swarming bees.
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I am teaching... This year it's kind of like having a love affair with a rhinoceros.
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Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.
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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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Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks.
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being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions
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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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Images are probably the most important part of the poem. First of all you want to tell a story, but images are what are going to shore it up and get to the heart of the matter.
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Father, you died once, salted down at fifty-nine, packed down like a big snow angel, wasn't that enough?
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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 leave you, home, when I'm ripped from the doorstep by commerce or fate. Then I submit to the awful subway of the world.
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Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.
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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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Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
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God owns heaven but He craves the earth.
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It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.
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