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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
Planets
Childhood
Cutting
Nets
Born
Dolls
Fall
Feds
Father
Holes
Never
Falling
Sky
More quotes by Anne Sexton
This is what poems are: with mercy for the greedy, they are the tongue's wrangle, the world's pottage, the rat's star.
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Some women marry houses. It's another kind of skin it has a heart, a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.
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Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle.
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Even without wars, life is dangerous.
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The sky breaks. It sags and breathes upon my face. in the presence of mine enemies, mine enemies The world is full of enemies. There is no safe place.
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Dead drunk is the term I think of, insensible, neither cool nor warm, without a head or a foot. To be drunk is to be intimate with a fool.
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All who love have lied.
Anne Sexton
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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I love you. You are closest to my heart, closer than any other human being. You are my extension. You are my prayer. You are my belief in God. For better or worse you inherit me.
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Rejoice with the day lily for it is born for a day to live by the mailbox and glorify the roadside
Anne Sexton
There is an animal inside me, clutching fast to my heart, a huge crab.
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The ground has on its clothes. The trees poke out of sheets and each branch wears the sock of God.
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God is only mocked by believers.
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Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
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All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
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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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I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
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stop the darkness and its amputations and find the real McCoy in the private holiness of my hands.
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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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Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
Anne Sexton