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

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Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle.
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All who love have lied.
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No matter whose bed you die in the bed will be yours for your voyage onto the surgical andiron of God.
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And thus Snow White became the prince's bride. The wicked queen was invited to the wedding feast and when she arrived there were red-hot iron shoes, in the manner of red-hot roller skates, clamped upon her feet.
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I am younger each year at the first snow.
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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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God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine.
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[I] have fantasies of killing myself and thus being the powerful one not the powerless one.
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it was my first doll that water went into and water came out of much earlier it was the diaper I wore and the dirt thereof and my mother hating me for it
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Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.
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My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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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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life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.
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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.
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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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Poetry to me is prayer.
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Oh thumb, I want a drink it is dark, where are the big people, when will I get there...?
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Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
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