Anne Sexton

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

Anne Sexton Poems

1. Song For A Lady 8/7/2015
2. Where I Live In This Honorable House Of The Laurel Tree 3/29/2010
3. The Errand 3/29/2010
4. The Fury Of Jewels And Coal 3/29/2010
5. The Road Back 3/29/2010
6. With Mercy For The Greedy 3/29/2010
7. The Legend Of The One-Eyed Man 3/29/2010
8. The Expatriates 3/29/2010
9. The House 3/29/2010
10. The Stand-Ins 3/29/2010
11. Torn Down From Glory Daily 3/29/2010
12. The Balance Wheel 3/29/2010
13. Some Foreign Letters 3/29/2010
14. The Hangman 3/29/2010
15. What's That 3/29/2010
16. Raccoon 3/29/2010
17. The Break Away 3/29/2010
18. The Firebombers 3/29/2010
19. Hutch 3/29/2010
20. The Kite 3/29/2010
21. The Play 3/29/2010
22. The Big Boots Of Pain 3/29/2010
23. The Child Bearers 3/29/2010
24. The Wedding Ring Dance 3/29/2010
25. Portrait Of An Old Woman On The College Tavern Wall 3/29/2010
26. Woman With Girdle 3/29/2010
27. Wallflower 3/29/2010
28. The Waiting Head 3/29/2010
29. The Division Of Parts 3/29/2010
30. The Fury Of Guitars And Sopranos 3/29/2010
31. The Red Dance 3/29/2010
32. The Fury Of Earth 3/29/2010
33. Letter Written On A Ferry While Crossing Long Island Sound 3/29/2010
34. The Fury Of God's Good-Bye 3/29/2010
35. The Fury Of Sunrises 3/29/2010
36. The Bells 3/29/2010
37. The Assassin 3/29/2010
38. The Fury Of Cooks 3/29/2010
39. The Author Of The Jesus Papers Speaks 3/29/2010
40. The Fury Of Overshoes 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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