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When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
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
Like
Dwarfs
Shakes
Head
Age
Lying
Imbecile
Born
Dwarf
Heart
Imbeciles
Love
Dwarves
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I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
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Here in the hospital, I say,that is not my body, not my body.I am not here for the doctorsto read like a recipe.
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I am not lazy. I am on the amphetamine of the soul. I am, each day, typing out the God my typewriter believes in.
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I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
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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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Blind with love, my daughter has cried nightly for horses, those long-necked marchers and churners that she has mastered, any and all, reigning them in like a circus hand.
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I'm the crazy one who thinks that words reach people.
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Look to your heart that flutters in and out like a moth. God is not indifferent to your need. You have a thousand prayers but God has one.
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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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The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
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I suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room. Kaboom! Like a genie out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of the bedroom.
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Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.
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Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.
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When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.
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The ground has on its clothes. The trees poke out of sheets and each branch wears the sock of God.
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No matter whose bed you die in the bed will be yours for your voyage onto the surgical andiron of God.
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I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.
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I sit at my desk each night with no place to go, opening the wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo, the whole U.S., its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones, through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
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