The Fury Of Guitars and Sopranos
is a kind of dying,
a kind of birth,
a votive candle.
I have a dream-mother
who sings with her guitar,
nursing the bedroom
with a moonlight and beautiful olives.
A flute came too,
joining the five strings,
a God finger over the holes.
I knew a beautiful woman once
who sang with her fingertips
and her eyes were brown
like small birds.
At the cup of her breasts
I drew wine.
At the mound of her legs
I drew figs.
She sang for my thirst,
mysterious songs of God
that would have laid an army down.
It was as if a morning-glory
had bloomed in her throat
and all that blue
and small pollen
ate into my heart
violent and religious.
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Comments about this poem (The Fury Of Guitars and Sopranos by Anne Sexton )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(03 April 1964)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
((13 March 1941 – 9 August 2008)
(3 March 1878 - 9 April 1917)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
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(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
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