Jan 14, 2007 02:34
Those moments before a poem comes,
when the heightened awareness comes over you, and you
realize a poem is buried there somewhere, you prepare yourself.
I run around, you know, kind of skipping
around the house, marvelous elation.
It's as though I could fly.
~ Anne Sexton
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DEAREST ANNE
Your words sealed to page,
brick to brick by concrete
create you: a woman with coffee
hair placed on top a tall,
straw like body-a camera’s desire.
Housewife, mother, best
remembered as a poet.
I know of the husband
And two children, the struggles
they brought you.
A wife to feel belonging,
a mother by guilt.
You wrote you had
gone out a possessed witch.
You haunted your life,
wanting to belong, to earn recognition;
you are my kind.
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Glad you like. THANKS!
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For that statement alone, she is one of the best.
"Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.”
This is why I can no longer be the poet I once was. It gets harder and harder to remember what it feels like to genuinely feel exuberant. I'm reading a collection put together by Garrison Keilor called "Good Poems" and he holds Sexton up as one of the greatest as well. Coincidentally(?) I just read the line, “The joy that isn't shared dies young,” last night. She is a continuing fountain of inspiration, and one of the few poets whose lines I remember.
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