Anne Sexton

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

Anne Sexton Poems

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