Anne Sexton Quotes - Page 4

The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.

Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.

I think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.

It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.

Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.

The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.

It would be pleasant to be drunk.

I have forgiven all the old actors for dying. A new one comes on with the same lines, like large white growths, in his mouth. The dancers come on from the wings, perfectly mated.

Somebody who should have been born is gone.

Poems aren't postcards to send home.

God is only mocked by believers.

A woman who writes feels too much.

I will be steel! I will build a steel bridge over my need! I will build a bomb shelter over my heart! But my future is a secret. It is as shy as a mole.

I am younger each year at the first snow.

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?

It is in the small things we see it. The child's first step, as awesome as an earthquake. The first time you rode a bike, wallowing up the sidewalk.

Maybe, although my heart is a kitten of butter, I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.

My eyes, those sluts, those whores, would play no more.

Talk to me about sadness. I talk about it too much in my own head but I never mind others talking about it either; I occasionally feel like I tremendously need others to talk about it as well.

Nature is full of teeth that come in one by one, then decay, fall out.

I am teaching... This year it's kind of like having a love affair with a rhinoceros.

But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build. Twice I have so simply declared myself, have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his craft, his magic.

Don’t worry if they say you’re crazy. They said that about me and yet I was saner than all of them. I knew. No matter. You know. Insane or sane, you know. It’s a good thing to know - no matter what they call it.

The summer has seized you, as when, last month in Amalfi, I saw lemons as large as your desk-side globe-that miniature map of the world-and I could mention, too, the market stalls of mushrooms and garlic bugs all engorged. Or I even think of the orchard next door, where the berries are done and the apples are beginning to swell. And once, with our first backyard,I remember I planted an acre of yellow beans we couldn't eat.

The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.