Anne Sexton

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

Anne Sexton Poems

121. Just Once 3/29/2010
122. Young 3/29/2010
123. Us 3/29/2010
124. For John, Who Begs Me Not To Enquire Further 3/29/2010
125. The Poet Of Ignorance 3/29/2010
126. Unknown Girl In A Maternity Ward 3/29/2010
127. You, Doctor Martin 3/29/2010
128. The Witch's Life 3/29/2010
129. The Consecrating Mother 3/29/2010
130. Wanting To Die 3/29/2010
131. For The Year Of The Insane 3/29/2010
132. The Fury Of Sunsets 3/29/2010
133. Live 3/29/2010
134. The Starry Night 3/29/2010
135. Noon Walk On The Asylum Lawn 3/29/2010
136. Crossing The Atlantic 7/11/2006
137. The Ballad Of The Lonely Masturbator 3/29/2010
138. Rapunzel 3/29/2010
139. Doctors 3/29/2010
140. The Abortion 3/29/2010
141. Words 3/29/2010
142. Suicide Note 3/29/2010
143. Going Gone 3/29/2010
144. The Addict 3/29/2010
145. The Dead Heart 3/29/2010
146. Ghosts 3/29/2010
147. Cripples And Other Stories 7/11/2006
148. Sylvia's Death 3/29/2010
149. Cockroach 7/11/2006
150. Killing The Love 3/29/2010
151. 'Daddy' Warbucks 6/27/2006
152. Elegy In The Classroom 3/29/2010
153. As It Was Written 6/27/2006
154. Bat 6/27/2006
155. For My Lover, Returning To His Wife 3/29/2010
156. Clothes 7/11/2006
157. In Celebration Of My Uterus 3/29/2010
158. August 17th 6/27/2006
159. Consorting With Angels 7/11/2006
160. The Black Art 6/27/2006

Comments about Anne Sexton

  • Amy Marie Amy Marie (12/19/2010 3:43:00 PM)

    I love her style. I recently made her one of my three favorite poets :)

    62 person liked.
    64 person did not like.
  • fleur de lys (7/25/2009 10:39:00 PM)

    She gets on my nerves too but I can't think of title 'The Awful Rowing Towards God' without smiling.

  • Indigo Hawkins (2/15/2008 4:42:00 PM)

    Sexton gets on my nerves. A lot. Some of her witticisms are hilarious, though.

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 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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