Anne Sexton Poems
|161.||The Poet Of Ignorance||3/29/2010|
|162.||The Red Dance||3/29/2010|
|163.||The Road Back||3/29/2010|
|164.||The Room Of My Life||3/29/2010|
|166.||The Starry Night||3/29/2010|
|168.||The Truth The Dead Know||6/27/2006|
|169.||The Twelve Dancing Princesses||3/29/2010|
|170.||The Waiting Head||3/29/2010|
|171.||The Wedding Ring Dance||3/29/2010|
|173.||The Witch's Life||3/29/2010|
|174.||To A Friend Whose Work Has Come To Triumph||3/29/2010|
|175.||Torn Down From Glory Daily||3/29/2010|
|176.||Unknown Girl In A Maternity Ward||3/29/2010|
|179.||Wanting To Die||3/29/2010|
|181.||When Man Enters Woman||3/29/2010|
|182.||Where I Live In This Honorable House Of The Laurel Tree||3/29/2010|
|183.||Where It Was At Back Then||3/29/2010|
|184.||With Mercy For The Greedy||3/29/2010|
|185.||Woman With Girdle||3/29/2010|
|187.||You, Doctor Martin||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 ...
have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.
I have found the warm caves in the woods,