Anne Sexton

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

Anne Sexton Poems

121. The Division Of Parts 3/29/2010
122. The Doctor Of The Heart 3/29/2010
123. The Double Image 3/29/2010
124. The Earth 3/29/2010
125. The Earth Falls Down 3/29/2010
126. The Errand 3/29/2010
127. The Evil Eye 3/29/2010
128. The Evil Seekers 3/29/2010
129. The Exorcists 3/29/2010
130. The Expatriates 3/29/2010
131. The Fallen Angels 3/29/2010
132. The Farmer's Wife 3/29/2010
133. The Firebombers 3/29/2010
134. The Frog Prince 3/29/2010
135. The Fury Of Abandonment 3/29/2010
136. The Fury Of Beautiful Bones 3/29/2010
137. The Fury Of Cooks 3/29/2010
138. The Fury Of Earth 3/29/2010
139. The Fury Of Flowers And Worms 3/29/2010
140. The Fury Of God's Good-Bye 3/29/2010
141. The Fury Of Guitars And Sopranos 3/29/2010
142. The Fury Of Hating Eyes 3/29/2010
143. The Fury Of Jewels And Coal 3/29/2010
144. The Fury Of Overshoes 3/29/2010
145. The Fury Of Rain Storms 3/29/2010
146. The Fury Of Sunrises 3/29/2010
147. The Fury Of Sunsets 3/29/2010
148. The Gold Key 3/29/2010
149. The Hangman 3/29/2010
150. The House 3/29/2010
151. The Interrogation Of The Man Of Many Hearts 3/29/2010
152. The Inventory Of Goodbye 3/29/2010
153. The Kiss 6/27/2006
154. The Kite 3/29/2010
155. The Legend Of The One-Eyed Man 3/29/2010
156. The Lost Ingredient 3/29/2010
157. The Moss Of His Skin 3/29/2010
158. The Nude Swim 3/29/2010
159. The Other 3/29/2010
160. The Play 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.

[Hata Bildir]