The Fury Of Hating Eyes
I would like to bury
all the hating eyes
under the sand somewhere off
the North Atlantic and suffocate
them with the awful sand
and put all their colors to sleep
in that soft smother.
Take the brown eyes of my father,
those gun shots, those mean muds.
Take the blue eyes of my mother,
naked as the sea,
waiting to pull you down
where there is no air, no God.
Take the black eyes of my love,
coal eyes like a cruel hog,
wanting to whip you and laugh.
Take the hating eyes of martyrs,
presidents, bus collectors,
bank managers, soldiers.
Take my eyes, half blind
and falling into the air.
Take your eyes.
I come to the center,
where a shark looks up at death
and thinks of my heart
and squeeze it like a doughnut.
They'd like to take my eyes
and poke a hatpin through
their pupils. Not just to bury
but to stab. As for your eyes,
I fold up in front of them
in a baby ball and you send
them to the State Asylum.
Look! Look! Both those
mice are watching you
from behind the kind bars.
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Comments about this poem (The Fury Of Hating Eyes by Anne Sexton )
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Harivansh Rai Bachchan
(27 November 1907 – 18 January 2003)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
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