Anne Sexton

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

Anne Sexton Poems

1. 45 Mercy Street 6/27/2006
2. A Curse Against Elegies 6/27/2006
3. A Story For Rose On The Midnight Flight To Boston 6/27/2006
4. Admonitions To A Special Person 6/27/2006
5. After Auschwitz 6/27/2006
6. Again And Again And Again 6/27/2006
7. All My Pretty Ones 3/29/2010
8. An Obsessive Combination Of Onotological Inscape, Trickery And Love 6/27/2006
9. And One For My Dame 6/27/2006
10. Angels Of The Love Affair 6/27/2006
11. Anna Who Was Mad 6/27/2006
12. As It Was Written 6/27/2006
13. August 17th 6/27/2006
14. August 8th 6/27/2006
15. Baby Picture 6/27/2006
16. Barefoot 6/27/2006
17. Bat 6/27/2006
18. Briar Rose (Sleeping Beauty) 6/27/2006
19. Buying The Whore 6/27/2006
20. Christmas Eve 6/27/2006
21. Cigarettes And Whiskey And Wild, Wild Women 7/11/2006
22. Cinderella 7/11/2006
23. Clothes 7/11/2006
24. Cockroach 7/11/2006
25. Consorting With Angels 7/11/2006
26. Courage 7/11/2006
27. Cripples And Other Stories 7/11/2006
28. Crossing The Atlantic 7/11/2006
29. 'Daddy' Warbucks 6/27/2006
30. Demon 7/11/2006
31. Despair 7/11/2006
32. Doctors 3/29/2010
33. Doors, Doors, Doors 3/29/2010
34. Dreaming The Breasts 3/29/2010
35. Earthworm 3/29/2010
36. Elegy In The Classroom 3/29/2010
37. Elizabeth Gone 3/29/2010
38. End, Middle, Beginning 3/29/2010
39. Flee On Your Donkey 3/29/2010
40. For God While Sleeping 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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