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Why are all these dolls falling out of the sky? Was there a father? Or have the planets cut holes in their nets and let our childhood out, or are we the dolls themselves, born but never fed?

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
Childhood
Cutting
Nets
Born
Dolls
Fall
Feds
Father
Holes
Never
Falling
Sky
Planets

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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What's the point of fighting the dollars when all you need is a warm bed? When the dog barks you let him in. All we need is someone to let us in. And one other thing: to consider the lilies in the field.
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Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.
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As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
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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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A woman / who loves a woman / is forever young.
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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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Then all this became history. Your hand found mine. Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot. Oh, my carpenter, the fingers are rebuilt. They dance with yours.
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Even without wars, life is dangerous.
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What's missing is the eyeballs in each of us, but it doesn't matter because you've got the bucks, the bucks, the bucks.
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Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me.
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Letters are false really - they are expressions of the way you wish you were instead of the way you are.
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bike downtown, stick out tongues at the Catholics. Or form a Piss Club where we all go in the bushes and peek at each other's sex.
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I love the word warm. It is almost unbearable-- so moist and breathlike.
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Love your self's self where it lives.
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I would like to think that no one would die anymore if we all believed in daisies but the worms know better, don't they? They slide into the ear of a corpse and listen to his great sigh.
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Poetry to me is prayer.
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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.
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think of innocent Icarus who is doing quite well: larger than a sail, over the fog and the blast of the plushy ocean, he goes. Admire his wings!
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Then God spoke to me and said: People say only good things about Christmas. If they want to say something bad, they whisper.
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Mood can be as important as sense.
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