Meanwhile in my head, I'm undergoing open-heart surgery. - Anne Sexton
299"This has all happened before
but nothing here is obsolete.
Everything here is possible." - Anne Sexton, from It Is A Spring Afternoon
370"Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
They have already torn up the sky
for they have torn off its color." - Anne Sexton, from Letters To Dr. Y.

forever and ever proud of owning this

2128"I felt that you were the one person I need not explain to." - Anne Sexton, from A Self-Portrait In Letters
429"You don’t need to be taught to cry.
The soul presses a button.
Is the cry saying something?
Does it mean help?
Or hello?" - Anne Sexton, from Hurry Up Please It’s Time

who were you?

Merely a kid, keeping alive.

" - Anne Sexton, from Baby Picture
485"I am aging without sound
into darkness, darkness." - Anne Sexton, from Baby Picture

"…I’m an ocean-going vessel
but you are a ceiling made of wood…”

Anne Sexton, from Grandfather, Your Wound

1240"I love you more than any human being, any anything." - Anne Sexton, from A Self-Portrait In Letters
698"The heart burst with love
and lost its breath." - Anne Sexton, from The Break

Anne Sexton, reads Letter Written On A Ferry While Crossing Long Island Sound

although everything has happened,
nothing has happened   
148"Oh, put away your good words
and your bad words. Spit out
your words like stones!
Come here! Come here!" - Anne Sexton, from The Complete Poems: Anne Sexton

demersi asked: I've recently come across people saying Anne Sexton physically AND sexually abused her daughter, do you whether is this entirely true or not? Its somewhat unsettled me because I adore her and consider her one of my favorite literary figures and an inspiration when it comes to writing. Also, I absolutely love your blog!!! It is possibly my favorite on tumblr.

First of all, thank you very much! Ugh, ignore the gossip. Ignore the vague, ignorant comments, dear. Please do ignore them. I wouldn’t like to elaborate on this issue that much myself but I suggest that you read Searching For Mercy Street: My Journey Back To My Mother, Anne Sexton written of course by Anne’s own daughter, Linda Gray Sexton. You will find in the book anything that you need to know. Linda’s writing is honest and unspeakably raw and, according to me, she tells it as it is and is brave enough to expose certain incidents which as traumatic as they may sound they still can really be felt and understood through how directly yet personally Linda captures them in words — she just has the right language to obviously approach her own issues and give them to the reader as wholly and clearly as it may get; no one shall have a say in this other than her. Anyway, having read that book myself, it all comes down to Anne occasionally entering in a state of trance; a state which was not uncommonduring many of the manic episodes she underwent and then even experienced loss of memory after they’d end (she was originally diagnosed with hysteria but it is believed that her case was that of a manic depression) — anyway, biographical details are all included in the book. I for one think that her entire bond with Linda was very very hard to grasp; she loved her daughter more than anyone, I believe, even more than her “treasures” aka her own poems which practically kept her alive. She loved Linda. Mental illness and “states” and all sorts of outrageous behavioural patterns Anne did experience through her own battle with the illness itself have nothing to do with her adoring her own child. Keep your mind open and read the book x


I was
the girl of the chain letter,
the girl full of talk of coffins and keyholes,
the one of the telephone bills,
the wrinkled photo and the lost connections,
the one who kept saying–
Listen! Listen!
We must never! We must never!

and all those things…

the one
with her eyes half under her coat,
with her large gun-metal blue eyes,
with the thin vein at the bend of her neck
that hummed like a tuning fork,
with her shoulders as bare as a building,
with her thin foot and her thin toes,
with an old red hook in her mouth,
the mouth that kept bleeding
in the terrible fields of her soul…

the one
who kept dropping off to sleep,
as old as a stone she was,
each hand like a piece of cement,
for hours and hours
and then she’d wake,
after the small death,
and then she’d be as soft as,
as delicate as…

as soft and delicate as
an excess of light,
with nothing dangerous at all,
like a beggar who eats
or a mouse on a rooftop
with no trap doors,
with nothing more honest
than your hand in her hand–
with nobody, nobody but you!
and all those things.
nobody, nobody but you!

" - Anne Sexton, from Love Song
/ past