Quote

Pulling off the fat diamond engagement ring, pulling off the elopement wedding ring, and holding them, clicking them in thumb and forefinger, the indent of twenty-five years, like a tiny rip leaving its mark.

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
Like
Rings
Engagement
Twenty
Diamond
Twenties
Wedding
Tiny
Pulling
Forefinger
Leaving
Ring
Clicking
Mark
Fats
Thumb
Five
Divorce
Rip
Years
Holding
Thumbs

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Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.
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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.
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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 Its mouth opens four times as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster, yet somehow man-made.
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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.
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The man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate.
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The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.
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I love the word warm. It is almost unbearable-- so moist and breathlike.
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Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn.
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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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Nature is full of teeth that come in one by one, then decay, fall out.
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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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Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.
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I'll Vacuum up my stale hair, I'll pay all my neighbors' bad debts, I'll write a poem called Yellow and put my lips down to drink it up.
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No one to hate except the slim fish of memory that slides in and out of my brain.
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There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
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we do not explain my husband's insane abuse and we do not say why your wild-haired wife has fled or that my father opened like a walnut and then was dead. Your palms fold over me like knees. Love is the only use.
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Despite my asbestos gloves, the cough is filling me with black, and a red powder seeps through my veins.
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I leave you, home, when I'm ripped from the doorstep by commerce or fate. Then I submit to the awful subway of the world.
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And if I tried to give you something else, something outside myself, you would not know that the worst of anyone can be, finally, an accident of hope
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