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Let there be seasons so that our tongues will be rich in asparagus and limes.

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
Tongues
Seasons
Tongue
Rich
Limes
Asparagus

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Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.
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What a lay me down this is with two pink, two orange, two green, two white goodnights.
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I am younger each year at the first snow. When I see it, suddenly, in the air, all little and white and moving then I am in love again and very young and I believe everything.
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But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.
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you see, we live in a cold climate and are not permitted to kiss on the street so I made up a song that wasn't true. I made up a song called Marriage.
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All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
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To love another is somethinglike prayer and it can't be planned, you just fallinto its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
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Poetry to me is prayer.
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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.
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Oh thumb, I want a drink it is dark, where are the big people, when will I get there...?
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If you meet a cross-eyed person you must plunge into the grass, alongside the chilly ants, fish through the green fingernails and come up with the four-leaf clover.
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I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
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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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Poems aren't postcards to send home.
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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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But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build. Twice I have so simply declared myself, have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his craft, his magic.
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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.
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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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