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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.
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
Bodies
Sucking
Forgiving
Lawn
Machines
Pond
Cutting
Soda
Body
Vodka
Ponds
Lawns
Fixing
Throb
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I see myself as one would see another. I have been cut in two.
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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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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’ll put it out there: I am scarred by the nostalgic indicipherability of my own desires I an engulfed by the intimidating unknown, pushed through darkness and dragged down by the irretrievable past sweetness of my memories.
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I try to take care and be gentle to them. Words and eggs must be handled with care. Once broken they are impossible things to repair.
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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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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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Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.
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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.
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You must be a poet, a lady of evil luck desiring to be what you are not, longing to be what you can only visit.
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Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.
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You who have inhabited me in the deepest and most broken place, are going, going
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The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
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I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.
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Abundance is scooped from abundance yet abundance remains.
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Watch out for love (unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes), it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be heard and none of your running will run.
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The Saints come, as human as a mouth, with a bag of God in their backs, like a hunchback, they come, they come marching in.
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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 leave you, home, when I'm ripped from the doorstep by commerce or fate. Then I submit to the awful subway of the world.
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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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