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the marriage twists, holds firm, a sailor's knot.

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
Holds
Firm
Marriage
Knot
Knots
Sailor
Twists
Longevity

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My objects dream and wear new costumes, compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.
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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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Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
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All who love have lied.
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The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives
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I am your dwarf. I am the enemy within. I am the boss of your dreams. See. Your hand shakes. It is not palsy or booze. It is your Doppelganger trying to get out. Beware...Beware...
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I am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?
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Blind with love, my daughter has cried nightly for horses, those long-necked marchers and churners that she has mastered, any and all, reigning them in like a circus hand.
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We are America. We are the coffin fillers. We are the grocers of death. We pack them in crates like cauliflowers.
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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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As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
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I would sell my life to avoid the pain that begins in the crib with its bars or perhaps with your first breath when the planets drill your future into you.
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The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
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Poetry to me is prayer.
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True. There is a beautiful Jesus. He is frozen to his bones like a chunk of beef. How desperately he wanted to pull his arms in! How desperately I touch his vertical and horizontal axes! But I can't. Need is not quite belief.
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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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Images are probably the most important part of the poem. First of all you want to tell a story, but images are what are going to shore it up and get to the heart of the matter.
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The fish are naked. The fish are always awake. They are the color of old spoons and caramels.
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The sea is mother-death and she is a mighty female, the one who wins, the one who sucks us all up.
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My safe, safe psychosis is broken. It was hard. It was made of stone. It covered my face like a mask. But it has cracked.
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