Quote

Bless all useful objects, the spoons made of bone, the mattress I cook my dreams upon, the typewriter that is my church with an altar of keys always waiting.

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
Always
Keys
Altar
Objects
Altars
Dreams
Bone
Waiting
Cook
Mattress
Church
Cooks
Mattresses
Upon
Bless
Typewriter
Dream
Useful
Typewriters
Made
Bones
Spoons

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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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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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I have forgiven all the old actors for dying. A new one comes on with the same lines, like large white growths, in his mouth. The dancers come on from the wings, perfectly mated.
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Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
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I brush my hair, waiting in the pain machine for my bones to get hard, for the soft, soft bones that were laid apart and were screwed together. They will knit. And the other corpse, the fractured heart, I feed it piecemeal, little chalice. I'm good to it.
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Let there be a heaven so that man may outlive his grasses.
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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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I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.
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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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The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
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There is an animal inside me, clutching fast to my heart, a huge crab.
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bike downtown, stick out tongues at the Catholics. Or form a Piss Club where we all go in the bushes and peek at each other's sex.
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I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
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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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All I wanted was a little piece of life, to be married, to have children.... I was trying my damnedest to lead a conventional life, for that was how I was brought up, and it was what my husband wanted of me. But one can't build little white picket fences to keep the nightmares out.
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Don't bite till you know if it's bread or stone.
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I grow old on my bitterness.
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Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.
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