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It would be pleasant to be drunk.

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
Drunk
Would
Pleasant

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The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives
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Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse.
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Here in the hospital, I say,that is not my body, not my body.I am not here for the doctorsto read like a recipe.
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I tied down time with a rope but it came back. Then I put my head in a death bowl and my eyes shut up like clams. They didn't come back.
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Now that I have written many words, and let out so many loves, for so many, and been altogether what I always was a woman of excess, of zeal and greed, I find the effort useless.
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I am teaching... This year it's kind of like having a love affair with a rhinoceros.
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Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
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All in all, I'd say, the world is strangling.
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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 think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.
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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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Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
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The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
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It's all a matter of history. Brandy is no solace. Librium only lies me down like a dead snow queen. Yes! I am still the criminal.
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Yes, I know. Death sits with his key in my lock. Not one day is taken for granted. Even nursery rhymes have put me in hock.
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Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
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I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.
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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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Loving me with my shoes off means loving my long brown legs, sweet dears, as good as spoons and my feet, those two children let out to play naked.
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Women tell time by the body. They are like clocks. They are always fastened to the earth, listening for its small animal noises.
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