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I have forgiven all the old actors for dying. A new one comes on with the same lines, like large white growths, in his mouth. The dancers come on from the wings, perfectly mated.

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
Come
Large
Mated
Like
Dying
Dancers
Growth
Forgiven
Lines
Dancer
Acting
Perfectly
Actors
Mouth
White
Mouths
Comes
Wings
Growths

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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn.
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Yes, I know. Death sits with his key in my lock. Not one day is taken for granted. Even nursery rhymes have put me in hock.
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In a dream you are never eighty.
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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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Please God, we're all right here. Please leave us alone. Don't send death in his fat red suit and his ho-ho baritone.
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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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women are born twice.
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All day I've built a lifetime and now the sun sinks to undo it.
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Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.
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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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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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Those moments before a poem comes, when the heightened awareness comes over you, and you realize a poem is buried there somewhere, you prepare yourself. I run around, you know, kind of skipping around the house, marvelous elation. It’s as though I could fly.
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When the cow gives blood and the Christ is born we must all eat sacrifices. We must all eat beautiful women.
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Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.
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Need is not quite belief.
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it was my first doll that water went into and water came out of much earlier it was the diaper I wore and the dirt thereof and my mother hating me for it
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Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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I did not know the woman I would be nor that blood would bloom in me each month like an exotic flower, nor that children, two monuments, would break from between my legs.
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