Anne Sexton Poems
|161.||Consorting With Angels||7/11/2006|
|164.||The Witch's Life||3/29/2010|
|165.||For My Lover, Returning To His Wife||3/29/2010|
|166.||Red Riding Hood||3/29/2010|
|167.||A Curse Against Elegies||6/27/2006|
|170.||Cigarettes And Whiskey And Wild, Wild Women||7/11/2006|
|174.||Snow White And The Seven Dwarfs||6/27/2006|
|175.||Admonitions To A Special Person||6/27/2006|
|178.||Buying The Whore||6/27/2006|
|179.||Anna Who Was Mad||6/27/2006|
|181.||Again And Again And Again||6/27/2006|
|182.||Music Swims Back To Me||6/27/2006|
|185.||Briar Rose (Sleeping Beauty)||6/27/2006|
|186.||45 Mercy Street||6/27/2006|
|188.||For John, Who Begs Me Not To Enquire Further||3/29/2010|
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
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 ...
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.