Anne Sexton

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

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
165. The Stand-Ins 3/29/2010
166. The Starry Night 3/29/2010
167. The Touch 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
172. The Wifebeater 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
177. Us 3/29/2010
178. Wallflower 3/29/2010
179. Wanting To Die 3/29/2010
180. What's That 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
186. Words 3/29/2010
187. You, Doctor Martin 3/29/2010
188. Young 3/29/2010
Best Poem of Anne Sexton

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.

A man who writes knows too much,
such spells and fetiches!
As if erections and congresses and products
weren't enough; as if machines and galleons
and wars were never enough.
With used furniture he makes a tree.
A writer is essentially a crook.
Dear love, you are that ...

Read the full of The Black Art

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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