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...became a woman who learned her own skin and dug into her soul and found it full.

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
Woman
Found
Soul
Skin
Skins
Became
Learned
Full

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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I tell it stories now and then and feed it images like honey. I will not speculate today with poems that think they're money.
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Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.
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Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.
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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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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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Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.
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Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings
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It is June. I am tired of being brave.
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Somebody who should have been born is gone.
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I keep feeling that there isn't one poem being written by any one of us - or a book or anything like that. The whole life of us writers, the whole product I guess I mean, is the one long poem - a community effort if you will. It's all the same poem. It doesn't belong to any one writer - it's God's poem perhaps. Or God's people's poem.
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the marriage twists, holds firm, a sailor's knot.
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I'll Vacuum up my stale hair, I'll pay all my neighbors' bad debts, I'll write a poem called Yellow and put my lips down to drink it up.
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Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.
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I put the gold star up in the front window beside the flag. Alterations is what I know and what I did: hems, gussets and seams.
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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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And if I tried to give you something else, something outside myself, you would not know that the worst of anyone can be, finally, an accident of hope
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I imitatea memory of beliefthat I do not own.
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I sit at my desk each night with no place to go, opening the wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo, the whole U.S., its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones, through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
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My business is words. Words are like labels, or coins, or better, like swarming bees.
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Please God, we're all right here. Please leave us alone. Don't send death in his fat red suit and his ho-ho baritone.
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