Anne Sexton

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

Anne Sexton Poems

161. Christmas Eve 6/27/2006
162. Despair 7/11/2006
163. August 17th 6/27/2006
164. Clothes 7/11/2006
165. August 8th 6/27/2006
166. An Obsessive Combination Of Onotological Inscape, Trickery And Love 6/27/2006
167. Snow White And The Seven Dwarfs 6/27/2006
168. Cigarettes And Whiskey And Wild, Wild Women 7/11/2006
169. Angels Of The Love Affair 6/27/2006
170. Music Swims Back To Me 6/27/2006
171. The Kiss 6/27/2006
172. All My Pretty Ones 3/29/2010
173. Consorting With Angels 7/11/2006
174. Her Kind 6/27/2006
175. And One For My Dame 6/27/2006
176. Buying The Whore 6/27/2006
177. Barefoot 6/27/2006
178. Baby Picture 6/27/2006
179. Cinderella 7/11/2006
180. Courage 7/11/2006
181. Briar Rose (Sleeping Beauty) 6/27/2006
182. A Curse Against Elegies 6/27/2006
183. Again And Again And Again 6/27/2006
184. A Story For Rose On The Midnight Flight To Boston 6/27/2006
185. After Auschwitz 6/27/2006
186. Anna Who Was Mad 6/27/2006
187. Admonitions To A Special Person 6/27/2006
188. 45 Mercy Street 6/27/2006

Comments about Anne Sexton

  • 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.

    34 person liked.
    64 person did not like.
  • 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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