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I think I've been writing black poems all along, wearing my white mask. I'm always the victim ... but no longer!

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
Thinking
Victim
Along
Longer
White
Black
Writing
Poems
Always
Mask
Think
Wearing

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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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Abundance is scooped from abundance yet abundance remains.
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It doesn't matter who my father was it matters who I remember he was.
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I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.
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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth.
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God owns heaven but He craves the earth.
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It is a dead heart. It is inside of me. It is a stranger yet once it was agreeable, opening and closing like a clam.
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... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
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Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.
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Nature is full of teeth that come in one by one, then decay, fall out.
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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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Even without wars, life is dangerous.
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Look to your heart that flutters in and out like a moth. God is not indifferent to your need. You have a thousand prayers but God has one.
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My ideas are a curse. They spring from a radical discontent with the awful order of things. I play clown. I play carpenter. I play nurse. I play witch.
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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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The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
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O starry night, This is how I want to die
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The family story tells, and it was told true, of my great-grandfather who begat eight genius children and bought twelve almost new grand pianos. He left a considerable estate when he died.
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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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