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One of my secret instructions to myself as a poet is Whatever you do, don't be boring.

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
Whatever
Instructions
Instruction
Boring
Poet
Secret

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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Rejoice with the day lily for it is born for a day to live by the mailbox and glorify the roadside
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I would like to bury all the hating eyes under the sand somewhere.
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Earth, earthriding your merry-go-roundtoward extinction,right to the rootsthickening the oceans like gravy,festering in your caves,you are becoming a latrine.
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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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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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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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Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings
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The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.
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I grow old on my bitterness.
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I, in my brand new body, which was not a woman's yet, told the stars my questions and thought God could really see the heat and the painted light, elbows, knees, dreams, goodnight.
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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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To love another is somethinglike prayer and it can't be planned, you just fallinto its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
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life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.
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Poetry to me is prayer.
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Of course the New Testament is very small. Its mouth opens four times as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster, yet somehow man-made.
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There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
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Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.
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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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When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
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No one to hate except the slim fish of memory that slides in and out of my brain.
Anne Sexton