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

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And thus Snow White became the prince's bride. The wicked queen was invited to the wedding feast and when she arrived there were red-hot iron shoes, in the manner of red-hot roller skates, clamped upon her feet.
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Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
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So I won't hang around in my hospital shift, repeating The Black Mass and all of it. I say Live, Live because of the sun, the dream, the excitable gift.
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Father, you died once, salted down at fifty-nine, packed down like a big snow angel, wasn't that enough?
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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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you see, we live in a cold climate and are not permitted to kiss on the street so I made up a song that wasn't true. I made up a song called Marriage.
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My life has appeared unclothed in court, detail by detail, death-bone witness by death-bone witness, and I was shamed at the verdict.
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Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.
Anne Sexton
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My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.
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All the oxygen of the world was in them. All the feet of the babies of the world were in them. All the crotches of the angels of the world were in them. All the morning kisses of Philadelphia were in them.
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All in all, I'd say, the world is strangling.
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One of my secret instructions to myself as a poet is Whatever you do, don't be boring.
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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.
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The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
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You cutting the lawn, fixing the machines, all this leprous day and then more vodka, more soda and the pond forgiving our bodies, the pond sucking out the throb.
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Of course the New Testament is very small. Its mouth opens four times as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster, yet somehow man-made.
Anne Sexton
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Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn.
Anne Sexton
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You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.
Anne Sexton
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sorrow is easier than guilt.
Anne Sexton