Anne Sexton

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

Comments about Anne Sexton

  • Cammy Michelson (5/27/2018 9:40:00 AM)

    A beautiful, unsettling work of art. A summary of a tortured and torturing life.

    0 person liked.
    1 person did not like.
  • Ellie (5/11/2018 2:54:00 PM)

    I loved it ❤️❤️🧡🧡💛💛💚💚💙💙💜💜💞💓💗❣️💕💖💘💝💟

  • Buttetflly (5/1/2018 11:37:00 AM)

    Great poems

  • 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.

  • 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.

Best Poem of Anne Sexton

45 Mercy Street

In my dream,
drilling into the marrow
of my entire bone,
my real dream,
I'm walking up and down Beacon Hill
searching for a street sign -
namely MERCY STREET.
Not there.

I try the Back Bay.
Not there.
Not there.
And yet I know the number.
45 Mercy Street.
I know the stained-glass window
of the foyer,
the three flights of the house
with its parquet floors.
I know the furniture and
mother, grandmother, great-grandmother,
the servants.
I know the cupboard of Spode
the boat of ice, solid silver,
where the ...

Read the full of 45 Mercy Street

The Kiss

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

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