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the heart, this child of myself that resides in the flesh, this ultimate signature of the me, the start of my blindness and sleep, builds a death crèche.

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
Children
Builds
Heart
Blindness
Flesh
Ultimate
Sleep
Child
Signature
Start
Resides
Death
Signatures

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives
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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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No one to hate except the slim fish of memory that slides in and out of my brain.
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For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.
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God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine.
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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.
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I said, the poets are there I hear them singing and lying around their round table and around me still.
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Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.
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this is no dream just my oily life where the people are alibis and the street is unfindable for an entire lifetime.
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I tied down time with a rope but it came back. Then I put my head in a death bowl and my eyes shut up like clams. They didn't come back.
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I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.
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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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My faith is a great weight hung on a small wire, as doth the spider hang her baby on a thin web.
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Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
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I raise my pelvis to God so that it may know the truth of how flowers smash through the long winter.
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We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!
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Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.
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Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
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unless I can shake myself free of my dog, my flag, of my desk, my mind, I find life a bit of a drag. Not always, mind you. Usually I'm like my frying pan useful, graceful, sturdy and with no caper, no plan.
Anne Sexton