Anne Sexton

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

Comments about Anne Sexton

  • Jon Holloway Jon Holloway (4/7/2018 4:25:00 PM)

    I had to read it several times but it sunk in nicely. I may have to read it again.

    1 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • Gulzar Hussain ranjoor (3/29/2018 12:44:00 AM)

    Your poetry is heart touching

  • sexton (2/21/2018 9:10:00 AM)

    dude her poems are so deep and some are very relatable in a lot of situations in my life

  • World level poet gulxar hussain ranjoor (1/22/2018 6:23:00 AM)

    Like your poems

  • Anne Sexton (11/30/2017 5:48:00 AM)

    She was fucking mental but I love her.

  • Russ B (11/23/2016 5:27:00 AM)

    Some people can be extremely judgemental and by being so miss entirely the whole point of the bigger picture. Anne Sexton was a brilliant poet and wrote many excellent pieces of poetry and at close of day it is the poetry that really matters.

  • Stephen W (7/27/2016 5:34:00 AM)

    Read her bio. She was a crazy person. They say she is 'modern model of a poet. This is very sad. Poetry does not have to be about madness. Lunacy is what it is. It's not poetic, just horrible suffering.

  • Lindsay Macdonald (2/7/2016 1:06:00 PM)

    Her words are simply breathtaking. It is confessionalism, said plainly in its truest form without ever being meaningless.

  • Lydia Kim (11/29/2014 6:29:00 PM)

    She's so eloquent and her words have such a pure depth. They're so honest and neither said with good nor bad intentions. Anne Sexton will live on in me and I'm sure in many others.

  • S B (5/5/2014 5:48:00 PM)

    Has many beautiful poems written, pointing out one of my favorites, Red Roses

Best Poem of Anne Sexton

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
outstared me.
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 ...

Read the full of For John, Who Begs Me Not To Enquire Further

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.

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