All Poems
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Old
© Anne Sexton
I'm afraid of needles.
I'm tired of rubber sheets and tubes.
I'm tired of faces that I don't know
and now I think that death is starting.
The Fury Of Abandonment
© Anne Sexton
It makes me laugh
to see a woman in this condition.
It makes me laugh for America and New York city
when your hands are cut off
and no one answers the phone.
A Contemplation
© Anne Kingsmill Finch
Then let my Contemplation soar
And Heav'n my Subject be
Though low on Earth in nature poor
Some prospect we may see
The Evil Eye
© Anne Sexton
It comes oozing
out of flowers at night,
it comes out of the rain
if a snake looks skyward,
Festina Lente
© James Russell Lowell
But vain was all their hoarsest bass,
Their old experience out of place,
And spite of croaking and entreating,
The vote was carried in marsh-meeting.
The Fury Of Overshoes
© Anne Sexton
They sit in a row
outside the kindergarten,
black, red, brown, all
with those brass buckles.
The Race
© William Rose Benet
A stretch of sand
Muffled the hoofs, and seemed to check us. Then
Caleppitcaleppitcaleppit! again. And neither gaining ...
Pursuer, pursued, and all a flowing illusion!
Bat
© Anne Sexton
His awful skin
stretched out by some tradesman
is like my skin, here between my fingers,
a kind of webbing, a kind of frog.
The Fury Of Rainstorms
© Anne Sexton
The rain drums down like red ants,
each bouncing off my window.
The ants are in great pain
and they cry out as they hit
Red Is The Color Of Blood
© Conrad Aiken
Red is the color of blood, and I will seek it:
I have sought it in the grass.
Noon Walk On The Asylum Lawn
© Anne Sexton
The summer sun ray
shifts through a suspicious tree.
though I walk through the valley of the shadow
It sucks the air
and looks around for me.
The Fallen Angels
© Charles Heavysege
'Twas on a day, and in high, radiant heaven,
An angel lay beside a lake reclined,
You, Doctor Martin
© Anne Sexton
You, Doctor Martin, walk
from breakfast to madness. Late August,
I speed through the antiseptic tunnel
where the moving dead still talk
The Fury Of Beautiful Bones
© Anne Sexton
Sing me a thrush, bone.
Sing me a nest of cup and pestle.
Sing me a sweetbread fr an old grandfather.
Sing me a foot and a doorknob, for you are my love.
The Moss Of His Skin
© Anne Sexton
"Young girls in old Arabia were often buried alive next
to their fathers, apparently as sacrifice to the goddesses
of the tribes..."
An Autumnal Extravaganza
© James Whitcomb Riley
With a sweeter voice than birds
Dare to twitter in their sleep,
The Angel Food Dogs
© Anne Sexton
No point? No twist for you
in my white tunnel?
Let me speak plainly,
let me whisper it from the podium--
Portrait
© John Frederick Nims
Seeing in crowded restaurants the one you love
You wave at the door, tall girl in imperious fur,
