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

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine.
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And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...
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Fee-fi-fo-fum - Now I'm borrowed. Now I'm numb.
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You must be a poet, a lady of evil luck desiring to be what you are not, longing to be what you can only visit.
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Love your self's self where it lives.
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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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Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.
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I tied down time with a rope but it came back. Then I put my head in a death bowl and my eyes shut up like clams. They didn't come back.
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My faith is a great weight hung on a small wire, as doth the spider hang her baby on a thin web.
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Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.
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I burn the way money burns.
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My ideas are a curse. They spring from a radical discontent with the awful order of things. I play clown. I play carpenter. I play nurse. I play witch.
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I was only sitting here in my white study with the awful black words pushing me around.
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Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
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Don’t worry if they say you’re crazy. They said that about me and yet I was saner than all of them. I knew. No matter. You know. Insane or sane, you know. It’s a good thing to know - no matter what they call it.
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Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.
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I am tearing the feathers out of the pillows, waiting, waiting for Daddy to come home and stuff me so full of our infected child that I turn invisible, but married, at last.
Anne Sexton
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The trouble with therapy is that it makes life go backwards.
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But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build. Twice I have so simply declared myself, have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his craft, his magic.
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Somebody who should have been born is gone. Yes, woman, such logic will lead to loss without death. Or say what you meant, you coward . . . this baby that I bleed.
Anne Sexton