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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.

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
Made
Curses
Poem
Curse
Rain
Window
Though

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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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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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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.
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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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Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.
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Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks.
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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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Blind with love, my daughter has cried nightly for horses, those long-necked marchers and churners that she has mastered, any and all, reigning them in like a circus hand.
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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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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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My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
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All the oxygen of the world was in them. All the feet of the babies of the world were in them. All the crotches of the angels of the world were in them. All the morning kisses of Philadelphia were in them.
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With this pen I take in hand my selves and with these dead disciples I will grapple. Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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sorrow is easier than guilt.
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But even in a telephone booth evil can seep out of the receiver and we must cover it with a mattress, and then tear it from its roots and bury it, bury it.
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The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
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All who love have lied.
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I try to take care and be gentle to them. Words and eggs must be handled with care. Once broken they are impossible things to repair.
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Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
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