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

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Take adultery or theft. Merely sins. It is evil who dines on the soul, stretching out its long bone tongue. It is evil who tweezers my heart, picking out its atomic worms.
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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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Somebody who should have been born is gone.
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Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn.
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Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse.
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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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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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the heart, this child of myself that resides in the flesh, this ultimate signature of the me, the start of my blindness and sleep, builds a death crèche.
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Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
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Nature is full of teeth that come in one by one, then decay, fall out.
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She is so naked and singular. She is the sum of yourself and your dream. Climb her like a monument, step after step. She is solid.
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The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.
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I have forgiven all the old actors for dying. A new one comes on with the same lines, like large white growths, in his mouth. The dancers come on from the wings, perfectly mated.
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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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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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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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Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.
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the marriage twists, holds firm, a sailor's knot.
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We are all writing God's poem.
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Talk to me about sadness. I talk about it too much in my own head but I never mind others talking about it either I occasionally feel like I tremendously need others to talk about it as well.
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