Quote

There is joy in all: in the hair I brush each morning, in the Cannon towel, newly washed, that I rub my body with each morning.

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
Brushes
Hair
Towel
Joy
Cannon
Morning
Cannons
Body
Towels
Newly
Washed
Brush

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Jewels! Today each twig is important, each ring, each infection, each form is all that the gods must have meant.
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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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All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
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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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The silence is death. It comes each day with its shock to sit on my shoulder, a white bird, and peck at the black eyes and the vibrating red muscle of my mouth.
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All day I've built a lifetime and now the sun sinks to undo it.
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I remember the stink of the liverwurst. How I was put on a platter and laid between the mayonnaise and the bacon. The rhythm of the refrigerator had been disturbed.
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Some women marry houses. It's another kind of skin it has a heart, a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.
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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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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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I said, the poets are there I hear them singing and lying around their round table and around me still.
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All considerations for these human remains! They must have an escort! They are classified!
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Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.
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the marriage twists, holds firm, a sailor's knot.
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I tell it stories now and then and feed it images like honey. I will not speculate today with poems that think they're money.
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My eyes, those sluts, those whores, would play no more.
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I would like to think that no one would die anymore if we all believed in daisies but the worms know better, don't they? They slide into the ear of a corpse and listen to his great sigh.
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Love? Be it man. Be it woman. It must be a wave you want to glide in on, give your body to it, give your laugh to it, give, when the gravelly sand takes you, your tears to the land. To love another is something like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
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I love the word warm. It is almost unbearable-- so moist and breathlike.
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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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