Anne Sexton

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

Anne Sexton Poems

41. For John, Who Begs Me Not To Enquire Further 3/29/2010
42. For Johnny Pole On The Forgotten Beach 3/29/2010
43. For My Lover, Returning To His Wife 3/29/2010
44. For The Year Of The Insane 3/29/2010
45. Funnel 3/29/2010
46. Ghosts 3/29/2010
47. Gods 3/29/2010
48. Going Gone 3/29/2010
49. Her Kind 6/27/2006
50. Hornet 3/29/2010
51. Housewife 3/29/2010
52. Hurry Up Please It's Time 3/29/2010
53. Hutch 3/29/2010
54. I Remember 3/29/2010
55. In Celebration Of My Uterus 3/29/2010
56. In Excelsis 3/29/2010
57. In Memoriam 3/29/2010
58. In The Deep Museum 3/29/2010
59. It Is A Spring Afternoon 3/29/2010
60. Just Once 3/29/2010
61. Killing The Love 3/29/2010
62. Kind Sir: These Woods 3/29/2010
63. Knee Song 3/29/2010
64. Lament 3/29/2010
65. Lessons In Hunger 3/29/2010
66. Letter Written On A Ferry While Crossing Long Island Sound 3/29/2010
67. Live 3/29/2010
68. Lobster 3/29/2010
69. Locked Doors 3/29/2010
70. Love Letter Written In A Burning Building 3/29/2010
71. Lullaby 3/29/2010
72. Menstruation At Forty 3/29/2010
73. More Than Myself 3/29/2010
74. Mother And Daughter 3/29/2010
75. Mr. Mine 3/29/2010
76. Music Swims Back To Me 6/27/2006
77. My Friend, My Friend 3/29/2010
78. Noon Walk On The Asylum Lawn 3/29/2010
79. Oh 3/29/2010
80. Old 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

Her Kind

have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.

I have found the warm caves in the woods,

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