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When they turn the sun on again I'll plant children under it, I'll light up my soul with a match and let it sing.

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
Children
Sing
Sun
Joy
Turn
Turns
Hope
Light
Match
Soul
Plant

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The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.
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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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There is no word for time. Today we will not think to number another summer or watch its white bird into the ground.
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Daisies in water are the longest lasting flower you can give to someone. Fact. Buy daisies. Not roses.
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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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Rocks crumble, make new forms, oceans move the continents, mountains rise up and down like ghosts yet all is natural, all is change.
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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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Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
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Poems aren't postcards to send home.
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God owns heaven but He craves the earth.
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Of course the New Testament is very small. Its mouth opens four times as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster, yet somehow man-made.
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When someone kisses someone or flushes the toilet it is my other who sits in a ball and cries. My other beats a tin drum in my heart. My other hangs up laundry as I try to sleep. My other cries and cries and cries when I put on a cocktail dress.
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I grow old on my bitterness.
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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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I'm hunting for the truth. It might be a kind of poetic truth, and not just a factual one, because behind everything that happens to you, there is another truth, a secret life.
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I am not lazy. I am on the amphetamine of the soul. I am, each day, typing out the God my typewriter believes in.
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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
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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.
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Poets are sitting in my kitchen. Why do these poets lie? Why do children get children and Did you hear what it said?
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