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O fallen angel, the companion within me, whisper something holy before you pinch me into the grave.

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
Fallen
Angel
Holy
Within
Pinch
Something
Whisper
Companion
Grave
Graves

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But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.
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I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.
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I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
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I see myself as one would see another. I have been cut in two.
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As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
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The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not. The trade winds blow me, and I do not know where the land is the waves fold over each other they are in love with themselves sleeping in their own skin and I float over them and I do not know about tomorrow.
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stop the darkness and its amputations and find the real McCoy in the private holiness of my hands.
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Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind
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This is what poems are: with mercy for the greedy, they are the tongue's wrangle, the world's pottage, the rat's star.
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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 trouble with therapy is that it makes life go backwards.
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I'm an empress. I wear an apron. My typewriter writes. It didn't break the way it warned. Even crazy, I'm as nice as a chocolate bar.
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Oh sharp diamond, my mother! I could not count the cost of all your faces, your moods that present that I lost. Sweet girl, my deathbed, my jewel-fingered lady...
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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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The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.
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O starry night, This is how I want to die
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Home is my Bethlehem, my succoring shelter, my mental hospital, my wife, my dam, my husband, my sir, my womb, my skull.
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I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.
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Nature is full of teeth that come in one by one, then decay, fall out.
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But even in a telephone booth evil can seep out of the receiver and we must cover it with a mattress, and then tear it from its roots and bury it, bury it.
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