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Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn.

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
Dies
Poor
Thing
Never
Brooklyn

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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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I said, the poets are there I hear them singing and lying around their round table and around me still.
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Suddenly I'm not half the girl I used to be. There's a shadow hanging over me . . . From me to you out of my electric devil.
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O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
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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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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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All considerations for these human remains! They must have an escort! They are classified!
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For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.
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What's the point of fighting the dollars when all you need is a warm bed? When the dog barks you let him in. All we need is someone to let us in. And one other thing: to consider the lilies in the field.
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I love the word warm. It is almost unbearable-- so moist and breathlike.
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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 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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Poems aren't postcards to send home.
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I am crazy as hell, but I know it. And knowing it is a kind of sanity that makes the sickness worse.
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I have a black look I do not like. It is a mask I try on. I migrate toward it and its frog sits on my lips and defecates.
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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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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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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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They [daisies] are my favorite flower. There is something innocent and vulnerable about them as if they thanked you for admiring them.
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Somebody who should have been born is gone.
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