Quote

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.

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
Sleep
Pearls
Stung
White
Alien
Bolt
Splendid
Pill
Loose
Cloth
Sleeping
Bolts
Aliens
Pearl
Skin
Floats
Skins
Pills

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The man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate.
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There is an animal inside me, clutching fast to my heart, a huge crab.
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A woman / who loves a woman / is forever young.
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The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.
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The ground has on its clothes. The trees poke out of sheets and each branch wears the sock of God.
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Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
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There is a good look that I wear like a blood clot. I have sewn it over my left breast. I have made a vocation of it.
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Perhaps I am no one. True, I have a body and I cannot escape from it. I would like to fly out of my head, but that is out of the question.
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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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Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me.
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The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
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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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My ideas are a curse. They spring from a radical discontent with the awful order of things. I play clown. I play carpenter. I play nurse. I play witch.
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The boys and girls are one tonight. They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. They take off shoes. They turn off the light. The glimmering creatures are full of lies. They are eating each other. They are overfed. At night, alone, I marry the bed.
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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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Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
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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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I raise my pelvis to God so that it may know the truth of how flowers smash through the long winter.
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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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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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