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Rejoice with the day lily for it is born for a day to live by the mailbox and glorify the roadside

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
Roadside
Lily
Lilies
Glorify
Rejoice
Born
Live
Mailbox
Mailboxes

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Oh, darling, let your body in, let it tie you in, in comfort.
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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.
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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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God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.
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Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.
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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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When they turn the sun on again I'll plant children under it, I'll light up my soul with a match and let it sing.
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Perhaps I am no one. True, I have a body and I cannot escape from it. I would like to fly out of my head, but that is out of the question.
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Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
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I grow old on my bitterness.
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I want to kiss God on His nose and watch Him sneeze and so do you. Not out of disrespect. Out of pique. Out of a man-to-man thing.
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All I wanted was a little piece of life, to be married, to have children.... I was trying my damnedest to lead a conventional life, for that was how I was brought up, and it was what my husband wanted of me. But one can't build little white picket fences to keep the nightmares out.
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I am in my own mind. I am locked in the wrong house.
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Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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A woman who writes feels too much.
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I remember the stink of the liverwurst. How I was put on a platter and laid between the mayonnaise and the bacon. The rhythm of the refrigerator had been disturbed.
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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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Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.
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