Quote

At six I lived in a graveyard full of dolls, avoiding myself, my body, the suspect in its grotesque house.

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
Six
Childhood
Lived
Graveyard
Full
Grotesque
House
Dolls
Body
Suspect
Suspects
Avoiding

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Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.
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Fee-fi-fo-fum - Now I'm borrowed. Now I'm numb.
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Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.
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To be without God is to be a snake / who wants to swallow an elephant.
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Those moments before a poem comes, when the heightened awareness comes over you, and you realize a poem is buried there somewhere, you prepare yourself. I run around, you know, kind of skipping around the house, marvelous elation. It’s as though I could fly.
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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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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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And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself
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Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.
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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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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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With this pen I take in hand my selves and with these dead disciples I will grapple. Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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Man is a bird full of mud, I say aloud. And death looks on with a casual eye and scratches his anus.
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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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The joy that isn't shared dies young.
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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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For forty days, for forty nights Jesus put one foot in front of the other and the man he carried, if it was a man, became heavier and heavier.
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I tell it stories now and then and feed it images like honey. I will not speculate today with poems that think they're money.
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Thief!- how did you crawl into, crawl down alone into the death I wanted so badly and for so long.
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All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
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