Anne Sexton

(9 November 1928 – 4 October 1974 / Newton, Massachusetts)

Anne Sexton Poems

1. Song For A Lady 8/7/2015
2. The Legend Of The One-Eyed Man 3/29/2010
3. The Child Bearers 3/29/2010
4. The House 3/29/2010
5. The Fury Of Overshoes 3/29/2010
6. The Road Back 3/29/2010
7. The Fury Of Cooks 3/29/2010
8. Where I Live In This Honorable House Of The Laurel Tree 3/29/2010
9. The Errand 3/29/2010
10. The Fury Of Jewels And Coal 3/29/2010
11. Some Foreign Letters 3/29/2010
12. Portrait Of An Old Woman On The College Tavern Wall 3/29/2010
13. The Break Away 3/29/2010
14. The Firebombers 3/29/2010
15. The Expatriates 3/29/2010
16. The Fury Of Earth 3/29/2010
17. The Kite 3/29/2010
18. The Bells 3/29/2010
19. The Stand-Ins 3/29/2010
20. Torn Down From Glory Daily 3/29/2010
21. The Balance Wheel 3/29/2010
22. The Moss Of His Skin 3/29/2010
23. The Waiting Head 3/29/2010
24. The Lost Ingredient 3/29/2010
25. The Hangman 3/29/2010
26. The Touch 3/29/2010
27. Raccoon 3/29/2010
28. Old 3/29/2010
29. The Fury Of Sunrises 3/29/2010
30. The Fury Of Hating Eyes 3/29/2010
31. The Author Of The Jesus Papers Speaks 3/29/2010
32. The Interrogation Of The Man Of Many Hearts 3/29/2010
33. The Fallen Angels 3/29/2010
34. With Mercy For The Greedy 3/29/2010
35. The Fury Of Rain Storms 3/29/2010
36. The Gold Key 3/29/2010
37. Hutch 3/29/2010
38. The Children 3/29/2010
39. The Evil Seekers 3/29/2010
40. For Johnny Pole On The Forgotten Beach 3/29/2010
Best Poem of Anne Sexton

45 Mercy Street

In my dream,
drilling into the marrow
of my entire bone,
my real dream,
I'm walking up and down Beacon Hill
searching for a street sign -
namely MERCY STREET.
Not there.

I try the Back Bay.
Not there.
Not there.
And yet I know the number.
45 Mercy Street.
I know the stained-glass window
of the foyer,
the three flights of the house
with its parquet floors.
I know the furniture and
mother, grandmother, great-grandmother,
the servants.
I know the cupboard of Spode
the boat of ice, solid silver,
where the ...

Read the full of 45 Mercy Street

The Black Art

A woman who writes feels too much,
those trances and portents!
As if cycles and children and islands
weren't enough; as if mourners and gossips
and vegetables were never enough.
She thinks she can warn the stars.
A writer is essentially a spy.
Dear love, I am that girl.

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