I wore my mind like a corset—tight, laced, unseen—
while the world asked me to smile with lipstick teeth
and stir the soup without stirring the storm inside.
There were mornings I woke as if embalmed,
already dressed in the hush of death's silk slip,
no reason, no riot—just a fog that would not lift.
The walls of my room pulsed like veins
and the mirror whispered lies in a female voice:
You are failing. You are too much. You are not enough.
I was the soft thing breaking beneath
a century of silence stitched into my sex,
taught to hush the howl and cradle the ache.
My hands shook when folding towels.
My heart stuttered at the scent of soap.
There was no name then for the madness.
Just "hysteria," like a curse tucked under my skirt,
and doctors who told me to marry or pray.
No pills yet. No lifeboats. Just poems or the end.
So I chose the door
that closed softer than the others.
Not for drama—
but for rest, for mercy,
for the silence to finally match
the silence within me.
If I'd been born later, maybe
there'd be lithium instead of letters.
But time gave me verse,
and verse gave me wings too torn to fly.
anne sexton the kiss
X X
X X
X X
X
X X
X X
X X
Anne Sexton nee Harvey
like Plath grew upin Wellsley
A student of Robert Lowell
known for his 'verse confessionel'
a circle of talk
awaiting
remembered
secrets
of yesteryear
alive
with surprise
perfected
in
instinctive
formal pictures
windows of blame
flood
with trouble
&
mirror
disgust
in pitfalls
to
nowhwere
evidence cripples
wrangles
cultivates
lying
freezing
applause
in all happenings
of the
heart
as
mouths speak
&
breathe thoughts
aloud
sight&touch
plot
to translate
the solitary
into
a delicate
air
of grace
a focus
on the truth
quickens-
style
flowers
and
covers forever
the shame
of the
journey
an intricate
answer
an object
lecture
a daily
reply
shaped
to the needs
spoken&
thought
a miracle
encounter
inside
a voice
a cry
a look in the eye
a perfected
gift
an omen
not
to deny
a duty to learn
a saying
to know
kingdom
a place
to
go
CONGRATULATION! – CONSUELA CONTESSA SEXTON
Constant you endeavored for a greater way.
You have achieved the ultimate and you should celebrate.
However, if you are not in a partying mood,
Lay back and relaxed because it’s all good.
The status you have acquired well gleam through.
I am so proud that my niece has finished her university schooling.
A Bachelor of Arts in Early Childhood Development from my alma mater.
I am so proud of you niece.
This is from your Aunt Verlena Sexton-Walker.
___________________________________________|
Penned May 03, 2015!
There is an old library
With thousands of books
Big books, little books,
Happy books, sad books
Books with pictures,
Books with words,
On some nights
Tiny black words
Call their authors
They sing, they laugh,
They whisper or twitter
Anne's books cry
They call her and ask
Did we make you go insane
Did we make you be honest
Did we make you be brave
Number our sins. Number.
Did we order you to
Put on your mother's old fur coat,
To lock yourself in the garage
And start the engine of your car
Did we tell you to poison yourself
From the grave write to us, Anne,
Write to us. Write.
Forgive us. Forgive.
Say we didn't.
Say.
Your tongue forced like clothes pins
wetting cinnamon lips,
gnawing at the barrier of one another.
Sketching, Sketching,
Hands shaping you, catching you drawn paper
filed with the note no one left,
a skilled architect,
slowly tracing across your torso.
Dog- earring the pages of your book, inner knowledge;
pages written with pearl droplets of silk
incandescent from moon colored sweat.
Fusing pressed ribs together firm as tuning forks,
asthmatic breath paining the wind
rushing through your chest;
sobbing in, sobbing out.
Sheets twisting each other in quicksand
your brail fingers finding my spine
racing down my back like a fire pole.
A sculptor arching your neck, pausing
amethyst eyes impatient like pedestrian traffic
hurried to find nowhere
Stamping, Stamping.
My hand planted in the small of your back
a careful caretaker stripped to the bone,
keeping us pinned together carelessly
inside out, upside down
Flurries blowing from the east,fine and dry
Drift across the fields and in silence lie.
American doublet form
You, Anne Sexton-
Why are you here? Don't you know
that my passion's run dry?
I take in your craft
like another addiction;
I give you- poetess- a run
through my veins. Yet it's
all too often my image I see,
my thoughts by your hand, heart
nailed to your words.
Why, Anne Sexton-
on page 153- are you
wearing my mother's image and name?
You're astonishingly,
achingly all too familiar;
the titular mother's got nothing on you.
And when I'm undone
in my mind's dusty corner,
Is that you- Anne Sexton-
teetering posthumously on my windowsill?
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