Anne Sexton

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

Anne Sexton Poems

1. Song For A Lady 8/7/2015
2. The Stand-Ins 3/29/2010
3. The Child Bearers 3/29/2010
4. Torn Down From Glory Daily 3/29/2010
5. The House 3/29/2010
6. The Interrogation Of The Man Of Many Hearts 3/29/2010
7. Raccoon 3/29/2010
8. The Fury Of Sunrises 3/29/2010
9. Portrait Of An Old Woman On The College Tavern Wall 3/29/2010
10. The Road Back 3/29/2010
11. The Fury Of Cooks 3/29/2010
12. Some Foreign Letters 3/29/2010
13. Hutch 3/29/2010
14. To A Friend Whose Work Has Come To Triumph 3/29/2010
15. The Bells 3/29/2010
16. For Johnny Pole On The Forgotten Beach 3/29/2010
17. The Angel Food Dogs 3/29/2010
18. The Fury Of Overshoes 3/29/2010
19. Funnel 3/29/2010
20. The Firebombers 3/29/2010
21. The Waiting Head 3/29/2010
22. Old Dwarf Heart 3/29/2010
23. Ringing The Bells 3/29/2010
24. Where I Live In This Honorable House Of The Laurel Tree 3/29/2010
25. The Legend Of The One-Eyed Man 3/29/2010
26. The Other 3/29/2010
27. Said The Poet To The Analyst 3/29/2010
28. The Play 3/29/2010
29. In Memoriam 3/29/2010
30. The Fury Of Rain Storms 3/29/2010
31. The Death King 3/29/2010
32. The Gold Key 3/29/2010
33. The Hangman 3/29/2010
34. The Fury Of Abandonment 3/29/2010
35. The Balance Wheel 3/29/2010
36. The Break Away 3/29/2010
37. The Fallen Angels 3/29/2010
38. The Fury Of Beautiful Bones 3/29/2010
39. The Fury Of Jewels And Coal 3/29/2010
40. Letter Written On A Ferry While Crossing Long Island Sound 3/29/2010
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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