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Big heart, wide as a watermelon, but wise as birth, there is so much abundance in the people I have.

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
Bigs
Heart
Much
People
Watermelon
Abundance
Wide
Birth
Wise

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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I am a collection of dismantled almosts.
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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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Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
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I am younger each year at the first snow. When I see it, suddenly, in the air, all little and white and moving then I am in love again and very young and I believe everything.
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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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I lay there silently, hoarding my small dignity. I did not ask about the gate or the closet. I did not question the bedtime ritual where, on the cold bathroom tiles, I was spread out daily and examined for flaws. I did not know that my bones, those solids, those pieces of sculpture would not splinter.
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I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
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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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Somebody who should have been born is gone.
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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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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.
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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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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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And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of us will shout, My need is more desperate! and I will eat you slowly with kisses even though the killer in you has gotten out.
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Then all this became history. Your hand found mine. Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot. Oh, my carpenter, the fingers are rebuilt. They dance with yours.
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I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.
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Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.
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[I] have fantasies of killing myself and thus being the powerful one not the powerless one.
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I think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.
Anne Sexton