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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
Curse
Rain
Window
Though
Made
Curses
Poem

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Despite my asbestos gloves, the cough is filling me with black, and a red powder seeps through my veins.
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I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.
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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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Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
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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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So I won't hang around in my hospital shift, repeating The Black Mass and all of it. I say Live, Live because of the sun, the dream, the excitable gift.
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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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Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
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Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle.
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All in all, I'd say, the world is strangling.
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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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All considerations for these human remains! They must have an escort! They are classified!
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Some women marry houses. It's another kind of skin it has a heart, a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.
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Dead drunk is the term I think of, insensible, neither cool nor warm, without a head or a foot. To be drunk is to be intimate with a fool.
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My objects dream and wear new costumes, compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.
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[I] have fantasies of killing myself and thus being the powerful one not the powerless one.
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There is joy in all: in the hair I brush each morning, in the Cannon towel, newly washed, that I rub my body with each morning.
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As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
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God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine.
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The Saints come, as human as a mouth, with a bag of God in their backs, like a hunchback, they come, they come marching in.
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