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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.

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
Mankind
Full
Eye
Anus
Death
Aloud
Looks
Mud
Men
Scratches
Casual
Bird

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There is joy in all: in the hair I brush each morning, in the Cannon towel, newly washed, that I rub my body with each morning.
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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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Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
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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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The man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate.
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I can only sign over everything, the house, the dog, the ladders, the jewels, the soul, the family tree, the mailbox. Then I can sleep. Maybe.
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I find now, swallowing one teaspoon of pain, that it drops downward to the past where it mixes with last year’s cupful and downward into a decade’s quart and downward into a lifetime’s ocean. I alternate treading water and deadman’s float.
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All who love have lied.
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The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not. The trade winds blow me, and I do not know where the land is the waves fold over each other they are in love with themselves sleeping in their own skin and I float over them and I do not know about tomorrow.
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Big heart, wide as a watermelon, but wise as birth, there is so much abundance in the people I have.
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When the cow gives blood and the Christ is born we must all eat sacrifices. We must all eat beautiful women.
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Frog has no nerves. Frog is as old as a cockroach. Frog is my father's genitals. Frog is a malformed doorknob. Frog is a soft bag of green.
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I burn the way money burns.
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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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It is in the small things we see it. The child's first step, as awesome as an earthquake. The first time you rode a bike, wallowing up the sidewalk.
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After a disaster strikes, it can be very devastating and very challenging. You're going to need a lot of strength and energy, and the American Red Cross suggests you go for the high protein items.
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The snow has quietness in it no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.
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I did not know the woman I would be nor that blood would bloom in me each month like an exotic flower, nor that children, two monuments, would break from between my legs.
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sorrow is easier than guilt.
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It is June. I am tired of being brave.
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