Quote

unless I can shake myself free of my dog, my flag, of my desk, my mind, I find life a bit of a drag. Not always, mind you. Usually I'm like my frying pan useful, graceful, sturdy and with no caper, no plan.

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
Free
Boredom
Desk
Find
Useful
Desks
Mind
Dog
Flag
Always
Plan
Flags
Caper
Life
Usually
Shake
Capers
Like
Plans
Contentment
Frying
Unless
Shakes
Sturdy
Bits
Drag
Graceful

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... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
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Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.
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I'll Vacuum up my stale hair, I'll pay all my neighbors' bad debts, I'll write a poem called Yellow and put my lips down to drink it up.
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The family story tells, and it was told true, of my great-grandfather who begat eight genius children and bought twelve almost new grand pianos. He left a considerable estate when he died.
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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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Take a woman talking, purging herself with rhymes, drumming words out like a typewriter, planting words in you like grass seed. You'll move off.
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Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
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I have been cut in two.
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Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
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I have forgiven all the old actors for dying. A new one comes on with the same lines, like large white growths, in his mouth. The dancers come on from the wings, perfectly mated.
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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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Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
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...became a woman who learned her own skin and dug into her soul and found it full.
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God owns heaven but He craves the earth.
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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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To love another is somethinglike prayer and it can't be planned, you just fallinto its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
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Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.
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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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For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.
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And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of us will shout, My need is more desperate! and I will eat you slowly with kisses even though the killer in you has gotten out.
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