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

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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You cutting the lawn, fixing the machines, all this leprous day and then more vodka, more soda and the pond forgiving our bodies, the pond sucking out the throb.
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I put the gold star up in the front window beside the flag. Alterations is what I know and what I did: hems, gussets and seams.
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Even so, I must admire your skill. You are so gracefully insane.
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I'm hunting for the truth. It might be a kind of poetic truth, and not just a factual one, because behind everything that happens to you, there is another truth, a secret life.
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O fallen angel, the companion within me, whisper something holy before you pinch me into the grave.
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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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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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So I won't hang around in my hospital shift, repeating The Black Mass and all of it. I say Live, Live because of the sun, the dream, the excitable gift.
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Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.
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Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me.
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The joy that isn't shared dies young.
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The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
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Images are probably the most important part of the poem. First of all you want to tell a story, but images are what are going to shore it up and get to the heart of the matter.
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Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.
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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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God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine. God went out of my fingers. They became stone. My body became a side of mutton and despair roamed the slaughterhouse.
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Need is not quite belief.
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The sea is mother-death and she is a mighty female, the one who wins, the one who sucks us all up.
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I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.
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Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.
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