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

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Nature is full of teeth that come in one by one, then decay, fall out.
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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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With this pen I take in hand my selves and with these dead disciples I will grapple. Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.
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When someone kisses someone or flushes the toilet it is my other who sits in a ball and cries. My other beats a tin drum in my heart. My other hangs up laundry as I try to sleep. My other cries and cries and cries when I put on a cocktail dress.
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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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When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions
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life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.
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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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Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
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I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
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sorrow is easier than guilt.
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And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
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The fish are naked. The fish are always awake. They are the color of old spoons and caramels.
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Poems aren't postcards to send home.
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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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The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.
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If you meet a cross-eyed person you must plunge into the grass, alongside the chilly ants, fish through the green fingernails and come up with the four-leaf clover.
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