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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

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Home is my Bethlehem, my succoring shelter, my mental hospital, my wife, my dam, my husband, my sir, my womb, my skull.
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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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In an old time there was a king as wise as a dictionary.
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I was the girl of the chain letter, the girl full of talk of coffins and keyholes, the one of the telephone bills, the wrinkled photo and the lost connections.
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I love the word warm. It is almost unbearable-- so moist and breathlike.
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To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.
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The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. Oh starry starry night! This is how I want to die.
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To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.
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The sanest thing in this world is love.
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I who was a house full of bowel movement, I who was a defaced altar, I who wanted to crawl toward God could not move nor eat bread.
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Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.
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And within the house ashes are being stuffed into my marriage, fury is lapping the walls, dishes crack on the shelves, a strangler needs my throat, the daughter has ceased to eat anything.
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I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.
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I can only sign over everything, the house, the dog, the ladders, the jewels, the soul, the family tree, the mailbox. Then I can sleep. Maybe.
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I keep feeling that there isn't one poem being written by any one of us - or a book or anything like that. The whole life of us writers, the whole product I guess I mean, is the one long poem - a community effort if you will. It's all the same poem. It doesn't belong to any one writer - it's God's poem perhaps. Or God's people's poem.
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I am teaching... This year it's kind of like having a love affair with a rhinoceros.
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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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Once upon a time we were all born, popped out like jelly rolls forgetting our fishdom, the pleasuring seas, the country of comfort, spanked into the oxygens of death.
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Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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