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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.
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
Divorce
Husband
Marriage
Black
Ends
Sings
Certain
Pretense
Good
Sheep
Pretend
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Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
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There is hope. There is hope everywhere. Today God give milk and I have the pail.
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Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth.
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Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.
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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 Its mouth opens four times as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster, yet somehow man-made.
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You cutting the lawn, fixing the machines, all this leprous day and then more vodka, more soda and the pond forgiving our bodies, the pond sucking out the throb.
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I've grown tired of love You are the trouble with me I watch you walk right by
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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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The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
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I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.
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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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Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.
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Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind
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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 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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I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.
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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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In an old time there was a king as wise as a dictionary.
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Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
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