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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...

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
Girl
Diamond
Lost
Lady
Mother
Count
Fingered
Mood
Deathbed
Cost
Jewel
Sweet
Moods
Present
Jewels
Faces
Sharp

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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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My life has appeared unclothed in court, detail by detail, death-bone witness by death-bone witness, and I was shamed at the verdict.
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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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We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!
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Nature is full of teeth that come in one by one, then decay, fall out.
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Images are probably the most important part of the poem. First of all you want to tell a story, but images are what are going to shore it up and get to the heart of the matter.
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There is a good look that I wear like a blood clot. I have sewn it over my left breast. I have made a vocation of it.
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the marriage twists, holds firm, a sailor's knot.
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Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.
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I am tearing the feathers out of the pillows, waiting, waiting for Daddy to come home and stuff me so full of our infected child that I turn invisible, but married, at last.
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Watch out for love (unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes), it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be heard and none of your running will run.
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Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.
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The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. Oh starry starry night! This is how I want to die.
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Frog has no nerves. Frog is as old as a cockroach. Frog is my father's genitals. Frog is a malformed doorknob. Frog is a soft bag of green.
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One of my secret instructions to myself as a poet is Whatever you do, don't be boring.
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Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.
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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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I think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.
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