Anne Sexton Poems
|161.||The Poet Of Ignorance||3/29/2010|
|162.||The Red Dance||3/29/2010|
|163.||The Road Back||3/29/2010|
|164.||The Room Of My Life||3/29/2010|
|166.||The Starry Night||3/29/2010|
|168.||The Truth The Dead Know||6/27/2006|
|169.||The Twelve Dancing Princesses||3/29/2010|
|170.||The Waiting Head||3/29/2010|
|171.||The Wedding Ring Dance||3/29/2010|
|173.||The Witch's Life||3/29/2010|
|174.||To A Friend Whose Work Has Come To Triumph||3/29/2010|
|175.||Torn Down From Glory Daily||3/29/2010|
|176.||Unknown Girl In A Maternity Ward||3/29/2010|
|179.||Wanting To Die||3/29/2010|
|181.||When Man Enters Woman||3/29/2010|
|182.||Where I Live In This Honorable House Of The Laurel Tree||3/29/2010|
|183.||Where It Was At Back Then||3/29/2010|
|184.||With Mercy For The Greedy||3/29/2010|
|185.||Woman With Girdle||3/29/2010|
|187.||You, Doctor Martin||3/29/2010|
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.
I try the Back Bay.
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,
I know the cupboard of Spode
the boat of ice, solid silver,
where the ...
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.