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|
For John, Who Begs Me Not To Enquire Further
Not that it was beautiful,
but that, in the end, there was
a certain sense of order there;
something worth learning
in that narrow diary of my mind,
in the commonplaces of the asylum
where the cracked mirror
or my own selfish death
And if I tried
to give you something else,
something outside of myself,
you would not know
that the worst of anyone
can be, finally,
an accident of hope.
I tapped my own head;
it was a glass, an inverted bowl.
It is a small thing
to rage in your own bowl.
At first it was private.
Then it ...
My mouth blooms like a cut.
I've been wronged all year, tedious
nights, nothing but rough elbows in them
and delicate boxes of Kleenex calling crybaby
crybaby, you fool!
Before today my body was useless.
Now it's tearing at its square corners.
It's tearing old Mary's garments off, knot by knot