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Love Poems
Twenty-five poems celebrating the sensual frontiers of Sexton's life.
80 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1969
About the author
Anne Sexton
147 books2,326 followersAnne Sexton once told a journalist that her fans thought she got better, but actually, she just became a poet. These words are characteristic of a talented poet that received therapy for years, but committed suicide in spite of this. The poetry fed her art, but it also imprisoned her in a way.
Her parents didn’t expect much of her academically, and after completing her schooling at Rogers Hall, she went to a finishing school in Boston. Anne met her husband, Kayo (Alfred Muller Sexton II), in 1948 by correspondence. Her mother advised her to elope after she thought she might be pregnant. Anne and Kayo got married in 1948 in North Carolina. After the honeymoon Kayo started working at his father-in-law’s wool business.
In 1953 Anne gave birth to her first-born, Linda Gray. Two years later Linda’s sister, Joyce Ladd, was born. But Anne couldn’t cope with the pressure of two small children over and above Kayo’s frequent absence (due to work). Shortly after Joy was born, Anne was admitted to Westwood Lodge where she was treated by the psychiatrist Dr. Martha Brunner-Orne (and six months later, her son, Dr. Martin Orne, took over). The original diagnosis was for post-natal depression, but the psychologists later decided that Anne suffered from depression of biological nature.
While she was receiving psychiatric treatment, Anne started writing poetry. It all started after another suicide attempt, when Orne came to her and told her that she still has a purpose in life. At that stage she was convinced that she could only become a prostitute. Orne showed her another talent that she had, and her first poetry appeared in print in the January of 1957. She wrote a huge amount of poetry that was published in a dozen poetry books. In 1967 she became the proud recipient of the Pulitzer Prize for Live or Die (1966).
In March 1972 Anne and Kayo got divorced. After this a desperate kind of loneliness took over her life. Her addiction to pills and alcohol worsened. Without Kayo the house was very quiet, the children were at college and most of Anne’s friends were avoiding her because they could no longer sympathize with her growing problems. Her poetry started playing such a major role in her life that conflicts were written out, rather than being faced. Anne didn’t mention a word to Kayo about her intention to get divorced. He knew that she desperately needed him, but her poems, and her real feelings toward him, put it differently. Kayo talks about it in an interview as follows: “... I honestly don’t know, never have known, what her real, driving motive was in the divorce. Which is another reason why it absolutely drove me into the floor like a nail when she did it.”
On 4 October 1974 she put on her mother’s old fur coat before, glass of vodka in hand, she climbed into her car, turned the key and died of monodioxide inhalation. She once told Orne that “I feel like my mother whenever I put it [the fur coat] on”. Her oldest daughter, Linda, was appointed as literary executor and we have her to thank for the three poetry books that appeared posthumously.
Her parents didn’t expect much of her academically, and after completing her schooling at Rogers Hall, she went to a finishing school in Boston. Anne met her husband, Kayo (Alfred Muller Sexton II), in 1948 by correspondence. Her mother advised her to elope after she thought she might be pregnant. Anne and Kayo got married in 1948 in North Carolina. After the honeymoon Kayo started working at his father-in-law’s wool business.
In 1953 Anne gave birth to her first-born, Linda Gray. Two years later Linda’s sister, Joyce Ladd, was born. But Anne couldn’t cope with the pressure of two small children over and above Kayo’s frequent absence (due to work). Shortly after Joy was born, Anne was admitted to Westwood Lodge where she was treated by the psychiatrist Dr. Martha Brunner-Orne (and six months later, her son, Dr. Martin Orne, took over). The original diagnosis was for post-natal depression, but the psychologists later decided that Anne suffered from depression of biological nature.
While she was receiving psychiatric treatment, Anne started writing poetry. It all started after another suicide attempt, when Orne came to her and told her that she still has a purpose in life. At that stage she was convinced that she could only become a prostitute. Orne showed her another talent that she had, and her first poetry appeared in print in the January of 1957. She wrote a huge amount of poetry that was published in a dozen poetry books. In 1967 she became the proud recipient of the Pulitzer Prize for Live or Die (1966).
In March 1972 Anne and Kayo got divorced. After this a desperate kind of loneliness took over her life. Her addiction to pills and alcohol worsened. Without Kayo the house was very quiet, the children were at college and most of Anne’s friends were avoiding her because they could no longer sympathize with her growing problems. Her poetry started playing such a major role in her life that conflicts were written out, rather than being faced. Anne didn’t mention a word to Kayo about her intention to get divorced. He knew that she desperately needed him, but her poems, and her real feelings toward him, put it differently. Kayo talks about it in an interview as follows: “... I honestly don’t know, never have known, what her real, driving motive was in the divorce. Which is another reason why it absolutely drove me into the floor like a nail when she did it.”
On 4 October 1974 she put on her mother’s old fur coat before, glass of vodka in hand, she climbed into her car, turned the key and died of monodioxide inhalation. She once told Orne that “I feel like my mother whenever I put it [the fur coat] on”. Her oldest daughter, Linda, was appointed as literary executor and we have her to thank for the three poetry books that appeared posthumously.
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June 8, 2017
Love Poems, Anne Sexton
تاریخ نخستین خوانش: دهم دسامبر سال 2016 میلادی
عنوان: عشق دیوانگی و مرگ ؛ عاشقانه های آن سکستون؛ شاعر: آن سکستون؛ مترجم: طیبه شنبه زاده؛ تهران، سرزمین اهورایی؛ 1393؛ در 67 ص؛ شابک: 9786006792248؛ موضوع: شعرهای عاشقانه آن سکستون - قرن 20 م
از شعرهای کتاب با عنوان: ما
پیچیده شده بودم
لای مخمل سیاه و مخمل سفید
تو بازم کردی
و در نور طلایی رنگ
بر سرم تاج گذاشتی
بیرون
مورب و شدید
برف میبارید
دانه های ده اینچی برف
مثل ستاره
در تکه های کوچک کلسیم
فرومیریخت
ما در بدنهای شخصیمان بودیم
(همان اتاقی که ما را سوزاند)
تو در بدن من بودی
(همان اتاقی که بیشتر از ما دوام آورد)
انگشتهایت را با حوله خشک کردم
چرا که برده ات بودم
بعد پرنسسم نامیدی
پرنسس!؛
در پوست طلایی ام ایستادم
اوراد مذهبی را ضرب گرفتم
لباسها را پس زدم
افسار را پاره کردی
عنان را گسیختی
دکمه ها را گشودم
استخوانها را شکافتم
سرآسیمگیها؛
کارت پستالهای نیوانگلند
و ده ِ شبهای ژانویه را.؛
و بعد مثل گندم
شکفتیم
جریب به جریب
و بعد درو کردیم
درو؛
سعید آرمات در مقدمه ی کتاب: «عشق دیوانگی و مرگ» آورده است: «واکاویهایی که شاعر در ذات هستی خویش دارد، نگاهی عاشقانه اما توأم با جنون است. جنون همچون زنبوری ست که به هرکجا بخواهد میپرد، و بر هرچه بخواهد مینشیند. اگر بخواهد نیشی هم بر ما فرومیکند، با عشقی که هماره در جای جای روح شاعر در حال تبانی با مرگ است. به هر حال این شاعر است که دست به گزینش میزند، و در اختیارِ نه چندان مختار، دو مفهوم کلان را از هستی برمیدارد. دو مفهوم، همچون دو کلان روایت؛ همچون دو کهن الگو؛ که سرتاسر شعر بسیاری از شاعران شرق و غرب را تحت سیطره ی خود دارد. مرزبندی درست و دقیقی هم در کار نیست؛ در شعر: «آن سکستون»، به خصوص هرجا شاعر از انسانی یاد میکند، که روزی شیفته ی او بوده، بلافاصله پای مرگ نیز به میان میآید. آنجا که با همه ی شیفتگی، از مادرش، و مادر بزرگش، یا از دوستش: «سیلویا پلات» حرف میزند؛ خطوط موازی عشق و مرگ به نقطه تلاقی میرسند. از سویی نوشتن برای او نوعی درمان است. نوعی درمان، که به توصیه ی دکتر مارتین، روانپزشک او، صورت میگیرد. بیهوده نیست که شعر «آن سکستون» را بسیاری از منتقدان، شخصی، و خصوصی دانسته اند. اما با اینحال اگر نبود آن حس مشترک ما با او، آن همذات پنداری، چه چیزی میتوانست گستره ی شعر ایشان را در جهان معاصر تا این اندازه فراخ کند و گسترش دهد. مناقشه هایی ظاهراً در نقد شعر ایشان در آمریکا در کار است؛ ایشان را به همراه «سیلویا پلات»، و «اسناد گرس»، شاعران اعترافی نام نهاده اند. هر نامی بر شاعر بگذارند، مهم نیست. چرا که شعر چیزی جز اعترافهای شخصی شاعر نیست، اعترافهای شاعر در وهله نخست به شاعر بودنش به نزد خودش ...؛ ا. شربیانی
تاریخ نخستین خوانش: دهم دسامبر سال 2016 میلادی
عنوان: عشق دیوانگی و مرگ ؛ عاشقانه های آن سکستون؛ شاعر: آن سکستون؛ مترجم: طیبه شنبه زاده؛ تهران، سرزمین اهورایی؛ 1393؛ در 67 ص؛ شابک: 9786006792248؛ موضوع: شعرهای عاشقانه آن سکستون - قرن 20 م
از شعرهای کتاب با عنوان: ما
پیچیده شده بودم
لای مخمل سیاه و مخمل سفید
تو بازم کردی
و در نور طلایی رنگ
بر سرم تاج گذاشتی
بیرون
مورب و شدید
برف میبارید
دانه های ده اینچی برف
مثل ستاره
در تکه های کوچک کلسیم
فرومیریخت
ما در بدنهای شخصیمان بودیم
(همان اتاقی که ما را سوزاند)
تو در بدن من بودی
(همان اتاقی که بیشتر از ما دوام آورد)
انگشتهایت را با حوله خشک کردم
چرا که برده ات بودم
بعد پرنسسم نامیدی
پرنسس!؛
در پوست طلایی ام ایستادم
اوراد مذهبی را ضرب گرفتم
لباسها را پس زدم
افسار را پاره کردی
عنان را گسیختی
دکمه ها را گشودم
استخوانها را شکافتم
سرآسیمگیها؛
کارت پستالهای نیوانگلند
و ده ِ شبهای ژانویه را.؛
و بعد مثل گندم
شکفتیم
جریب به جریب
و بعد درو کردیم
درو؛
سعید آرمات در مقدمه ی کتاب: «عشق دیوانگی و مرگ» آورده است: «واکاویهایی که شاعر در ذات هستی خویش دارد، نگاهی عاشقانه اما توأم با جنون است. جنون همچون زنبوری ست که به هرکجا بخواهد میپرد، و بر هرچه بخواهد مینشیند. اگر بخواهد نیشی هم بر ما فرومیکند، با عشقی که هماره در جای جای روح شاعر در حال تبانی با مرگ است. به هر حال این شاعر است که دست به گزینش میزند، و در اختیارِ نه چندان مختار، دو مفهوم کلان را از هستی برمیدارد. دو مفهوم، همچون دو کلان روایت؛ همچون دو کهن الگو؛ که سرتاسر شعر بسیاری از شاعران شرق و غرب را تحت سیطره ی خود دارد. مرزبندی درست و دقیقی هم در کار نیست؛ در شعر: «آن سکستون»، به خصوص هرجا شاعر از انسانی یاد میکند، که روزی شیفته ی او بوده، بلافاصله پای مرگ نیز به میان میآید. آنجا که با همه ی شیفتگی، از مادرش، و مادر بزرگش، یا از دوستش: «سیلویا پلات» حرف میزند؛ خطوط موازی عشق و مرگ به نقطه تلاقی میرسند. از سویی نوشتن برای او نوعی درمان است. نوعی درمان، که به توصیه ی دکتر مارتین، روانپزشک او، صورت میگیرد. بیهوده نیست که شعر «آن سکستون» را بسیاری از منتقدان، شخصی، و خصوصی دانسته اند. اما با اینحال اگر نبود آن حس مشترک ما با او، آن همذات پنداری، چه چیزی میتوانست گستره ی شعر ایشان را در جهان معاصر تا این اندازه فراخ کند و گسترش دهد. مناقشه هایی ظاهراً در نقد شعر ایشان در آمریکا در کار است؛ ایشان را به همراه «سیلویا پلات»، و «اسناد گرس»، شاعران اعترافی نام نهاده اند. هر نامی بر شاعر بگذارند، مهم نیست. چرا که شعر چیزی جز اعترافهای شخصی شاعر نیست، اعترافهای شاعر در وهله نخست به شاعر بودنش به نزد خودش ...؛ ا. شربیانی
July 22, 2018
Taking as its central theme the lover as redeemer/destroyer, Love Poems consists of twenty-five sensual poems that probe the depths of erotic experience. The collection has much more passion and imagination than Sexton's previous collection, Live or Die, which won her the Pulitzer Prize but always has seemed to me to be the weakest of her early collections. Many of the poems deal with rebirth and warm landscapes, making it a perfect spring or summer read.
February 1, 2018
These poems were remarkably good from one of my favourite poets, it's difficult to pick a favourite, "THE INTERROGATION OF THE MAN OF MANY HEARTS", "FOR MY LOVER, RETURNING TO HIS WIFE", "THE BREAK", "THE BALLAD OF THE LONELY MASTURBATOR", and "Us" (featured below), were probably my top five.
"I was wrapped in black
fur and white fur and
you undid me and then
you placed me in gold light
and then you crowned me,
while snow fell outside
the door in diagonal darts.
While a ten-inch snow
came down like stars
in small calcium fragments,
we were in our own bodies
(that room that will bury us)
and you were in my body
(that room that will outlive us)
and at first I rubbed your
feet dry with a towel
because I was your slave
and then you called me princess.
Princess!
Oh then
I stood up in my gold skin
and I beat down the psalms
and I beat down the clothes
and you undid the bridle
and you undid the reins
and I undid the buttons,
the bones, the confusions,
the New England postcards,
the January ten o'clock night,
and we rose up like wheat,
acre after acre of gold,
and we harvested,
we harvested."
"I was wrapped in black
fur and white fur and
you undid me and then
you placed me in gold light
and then you crowned me,
while snow fell outside
the door in diagonal darts.
While a ten-inch snow
came down like stars
in small calcium fragments,
we were in our own bodies
(that room that will bury us)
and you were in my body
(that room that will outlive us)
and at first I rubbed your
feet dry with a towel
because I was your slave
and then you called me princess.
Princess!
Oh then
I stood up in my gold skin
and I beat down the psalms
and I beat down the clothes
and you undid the bridle
and you undid the reins
and I undid the buttons,
the bones, the confusions,
the New England postcards,
the January ten o'clock night,
and we rose up like wheat,
acre after acre of gold,
and we harvested,
we harvested."
May 21, 2018
I love Love Poems, but I'm surprised that almost no reviewers here have mentioned 'That Day'.
To me, 'That Day', stands out as the clearest written expression of female sensuality I've ever seen. If you're interested in this book, find 'That Day'.
It's one of few times where something I've read has internally displaced me so far that it calls for me to 'gather myself' for a few minutes after reading—it was so vivid, believable and succinct.
To me, 'That Day', stands out as the clearest written expression of female sensuality I've ever seen. If you're interested in this book, find 'That Day'.
It's one of few times where something I've read has internally displaced me so far that it calls for me to 'gather myself' for a few minutes after reading—it was so vivid, believable and succinct.
November 21, 2017
Diciamocelo, sono stata di passaggio.
Un lusso. Una scialuppa rosso fuoco nella cala.
Al mio amante che torna da sua moglie
(Anne Sexton)
Lei è tutta là.
Per te con maestria fu fusa e fu colata,
per te forgiata fin dalla tua infanzia,
con le tue cento biglie predilette fu costrutta.
Lei è sempre stata là, mio caro.
Infatti è deliziosa.
Fuochi d’artificio in un febbraio uggioso
e concreta come pentola di ghisa.
Diciamocelo, sono stata di passaggio.
Un lusso. Una scialuppa rosso fuoco nella cala.
Mi svolazzano i capelli dal finestrino.
Son fumo, cozze fuori stagione.
Lei è molto di più. Lei ti è dovuta,
t’incrementa le crescite usuali e tropicali.
Questo non è un esperimento. Lei è tutta armonia.
S’occupa lei dei remi e degli scalmi del canotto,
ha messo fiorellini sul davanzale a colazione,
s’è seduta a tornire stoviglie a mezzogiorno,
ha esposto tre bambini al plenilunio,
tre puttini disegnati da Michelangelo,
l’ha fatto a gambe spalancate
nei mesi faticosi alla cappella.
Se dai un’occhiata, i bambini sono lassù
sospesi alla volta come delicati palloncini.
Lei li ha anche portati a nanna dopo cena,
e loro tutt’e tre a testa bassa,
piccati sulle gambette, lamentosi e riluttanti,
e la sua faccia avvampa neniando il loro
poco sonno.
Ti restituisco il cuore.
Ti do libero accesso:
al fusibile che in lei rabbiosamente pulsa,
alla cagna che in lei tramesta nella sozzura,
e alla sua ferita sepolta
– alla sepoltura viva della sua piccola ferita rossa –
al pallido bagliore tremolante sotto le costole,
al marinaio sbronzo in aspettativa nel polso
sinistro,
alle sue ginocchia materne, alle calze,
alla giarrettiera – per il richiamo –
lo strano richiamo
quando annaspi tra braccia e poppe
e dai uno strattone al suo nastro arancione
rispondendo al richiamo, lo strano richiamo.
Lei è così nuda, è unica.
È la somma di te e dei tuoi sogni.
Montala come un monumento, gradino per gradino.
lei è solida.
Quanto a me, io sono un acquerello.
Mi dissolvo.
Un lusso. Una scialuppa rosso fuoco nella cala.
Al mio amante che torna da sua moglie
(Anne Sexton)
Lei è tutta là.
Per te con maestria fu fusa e fu colata,
per te forgiata fin dalla tua infanzia,
con le tue cento biglie predilette fu costrutta.
Lei è sempre stata là, mio caro.
Infatti è deliziosa.
Fuochi d’artificio in un febbraio uggioso
e concreta come pentola di ghisa.
Diciamocelo, sono stata di passaggio.
Un lusso. Una scialuppa rosso fuoco nella cala.
Mi svolazzano i capelli dal finestrino.
Son fumo, cozze fuori stagione.
Lei è molto di più. Lei ti è dovuta,
t’incrementa le crescite usuali e tropicali.
Questo non è un esperimento. Lei è tutta armonia.
S’occupa lei dei remi e degli scalmi del canotto,
ha messo fiorellini sul davanzale a colazione,
s’è seduta a tornire stoviglie a mezzogiorno,
ha esposto tre bambini al plenilunio,
tre puttini disegnati da Michelangelo,
l’ha fatto a gambe spalancate
nei mesi faticosi alla cappella.
Se dai un’occhiata, i bambini sono lassù
sospesi alla volta come delicati palloncini.
Lei li ha anche portati a nanna dopo cena,
e loro tutt’e tre a testa bassa,
piccati sulle gambette, lamentosi e riluttanti,
e la sua faccia avvampa neniando il loro
poco sonno.
Ti restituisco il cuore.
Ti do libero accesso:
al fusibile che in lei rabbiosamente pulsa,
alla cagna che in lei tramesta nella sozzura,
e alla sua ferita sepolta
– alla sepoltura viva della sua piccola ferita rossa –
al pallido bagliore tremolante sotto le costole,
al marinaio sbronzo in aspettativa nel polso
sinistro,
alle sue ginocchia materne, alle calze,
alla giarrettiera – per il richiamo –
lo strano richiamo
quando annaspi tra braccia e poppe
e dai uno strattone al suo nastro arancione
rispondendo al richiamo, lo strano richiamo.
Lei è così nuda, è unica.
È la somma di te e dei tuoi sogni.
Montala come un monumento, gradino per gradino.
lei è solida.
Quanto a me, io sono un acquerello.
Mi dissolvo.
June 28, 2007
I love this book of poems (and have for many years) because of one poem it contains which has a grace and beauty and truth that I recognize and admire and that breaks my heart each time I really think about it. I hope that despite a messy (if only for its failure to be epic or stormy or contented and sweet) past love-life I will never know the pain that the the speaker of this poem knows. I hope that this poem, if nothing else, will remind me to secure my heart from loving men such as these, regardless of who or what they are married to.
Finally, I am also reminded in reading this poem that I love what it suggests positively about marriage or love. That one could be a have to have. Be indelible. That life has that to offer some of us, if not all of us, if not the voice of this poem:
"For My Lover, Returning To His Wife"
She is all there.
She was melted carefully down for you
and cast up from your childhood,
cast up from your one hundred favorite aggies.
She has always been there, my darling.
She is, in fact, exquisite.
Fireworks in the dull middle of February
and as real as a cast-iron pot.
Let's face it, I have been momentary.
A luxury. A bright red sloop in the harbor.
My hair rising like smoke from the car window.
Littleneck clams out of season.
She is more than that. She is your have to have,
has grown you your practical your tropical growth.
This is not an experiment. She is all harmony.
She sees to oars and oarlocks for the dinghy,
has placed wild flowers at the window at breakfast,
sat by the potter's wheel at midday,
set forth three children under the moon,
three cherubs drawn by Michelangelo,
done this with her legs spread out
in the terrible months in the chapel.
If you glance up, the children are there
like delicate balloons resting on the ceiling.
She has also carried each one down the hall
after supper, their heads privately bent,
two legs protesting, person to person,
her face flushed with a song and their little sleep.
I give you back your heart.
I give you permission --
for the fuse inside her, throbbing
angrily in the dirt, for the bitch in her
and the burying of her wound --
for the burying of her small red wound alive --
for the pale flickering flare under her ribs,
for the drunken sailor who waits in her left pulse,
for the mother's knee, for the stocking,
for the garter belt, for the call --
the curious call
when you will burrow in arms and breasts
and tug at the orange ribbon in her hair
and answer the call, the curious call.
She is so naked and singular
She is the sum of yourself and your dream.
Climb her like a monument, step after step.
She is solid.
As for me, I am a watercolor.
I wash off.
Finally, I am also reminded in reading this poem that I love what it suggests positively about marriage or love. That one could be a have to have. Be indelible. That life has that to offer some of us, if not all of us, if not the voice of this poem:
"For My Lover, Returning To His Wife"
She is all there.
She was melted carefully down for you
and cast up from your childhood,
cast up from your one hundred favorite aggies.
She has always been there, my darling.
She is, in fact, exquisite.
Fireworks in the dull middle of February
and as real as a cast-iron pot.
Let's face it, I have been momentary.
A luxury. A bright red sloop in the harbor.
My hair rising like smoke from the car window.
Littleneck clams out of season.
She is more than that. She is your have to have,
has grown you your practical your tropical growth.
This is not an experiment. She is all harmony.
She sees to oars and oarlocks for the dinghy,
has placed wild flowers at the window at breakfast,
sat by the potter's wheel at midday,
set forth three children under the moon,
three cherubs drawn by Michelangelo,
done this with her legs spread out
in the terrible months in the chapel.
If you glance up, the children are there
like delicate balloons resting on the ceiling.
She has also carried each one down the hall
after supper, their heads privately bent,
two legs protesting, person to person,
her face flushed with a song and their little sleep.
I give you back your heart.
I give you permission --
for the fuse inside her, throbbing
angrily in the dirt, for the bitch in her
and the burying of her wound --
for the burying of her small red wound alive --
for the pale flickering flare under her ribs,
for the drunken sailor who waits in her left pulse,
for the mother's knee, for the stocking,
for the garter belt, for the call --
the curious call
when you will burrow in arms and breasts
and tug at the orange ribbon in her hair
and answer the call, the curious call.
She is so naked and singular
She is the sum of yourself and your dream.
Climb her like a monument, step after step.
She is solid.
As for me, I am a watercolor.
I wash off.
February 10, 2023
Omvergeblazen. Ik hou zo verschrikkelijk veel van deze bundel. Zowel gracieus als genadeloos en sensueel (de verleiding druipt ervan af, wat mij betreft). Baldadig en grotesk, maar altijd in balans door het alledaagse dat tegengeluid biedt ("Do you care for salami?"). Parels van zinnen, zoals "I burn the way money burns" en "I'm out of repair but you are tall in your battle dress and I must arrange for your journey." Ik kan nog wel even doorgaan zo.
March 11, 2013
3.5 Having now read three Sexton's, I find her to be a bit of a hit and miss. The only thing is, when she hits, she hits so damn hard.
October 27, 2019
"I am alive at night.
I am dead in the morning,
an old vessel who used up her oil,
bleak and pale boned.
No miracle. No dazzle."
I am dead in the morning,
an old vessel who used up her oil,
bleak and pale boned.
No miracle. No dazzle."
December 13, 2023
"Then I think of you in bed,
your tongue half chocolate, half ocean,
of the houses that you swing into,
of the steel wool hair on your head,
of your persistent hands and then
how we gnaw at the barrier because we are two.
How you come and take my blood cup
and link me together and take my brine.
We are bare. We are stripped to the bone
and we swim in tandem and go up and up
the river, the identical river called Mine
and we enter together. No one's alone."
(EIGHTEEN DAYS WITHOUT YOU)
your tongue half chocolate, half ocean,
of the houses that you swing into,
of the steel wool hair on your head,
of your persistent hands and then
how we gnaw at the barrier because we are two.
How you come and take my blood cup
and link me together and take my brine.
We are bare. We are stripped to the bone
and we swim in tandem and go up and up
the river, the identical river called Mine
and we enter together. No one's alone."
(EIGHTEEN DAYS WITHOUT YOU)
March 15, 2021
3.5 as some just went over my head but there were a few good ones, including:
Us
"I was wrapped in black
fur and white fur and
you undid me and then
you placed me in gold light
and then you crowned me,
while snow fell outside
the door in diagonal darts.
While a ten-inch snow
came down like stars
in small calcium fragments,
we were in our own bodies
(that room that will bury us)
and you were in my body
(that room that will outlive us)
and at first I rubbed your
feet dry with a towel
because I was your slave
and then you called me princess.
Princess!
Oh then
I stood up in my gold skin
and I beat down the psalms
and I beat down the clothes
and you undid the bridle
and you undid the reins
and I undid the buttons,
the bones, the confusions,
the New England postcards,
the January ten o'clock night,
and we rose up like wheat,
acre after acre of gold,
and we harvested,
we harvested."
Us
"I was wrapped in black
fur and white fur and
you undid me and then
you placed me in gold light
and then you crowned me,
while snow fell outside
the door in diagonal darts.
While a ten-inch snow
came down like stars
in small calcium fragments,
we were in our own bodies
(that room that will bury us)
and you were in my body
(that room that will outlive us)
and at first I rubbed your
feet dry with a towel
because I was your slave
and then you called me princess.
Princess!
Oh then
I stood up in my gold skin
and I beat down the psalms
and I beat down the clothes
and you undid the bridle
and you undid the reins
and I undid the buttons,
the bones, the confusions,
the New England postcards,
the January ten o'clock night,
and we rose up like wheat,
acre after acre of gold,
and we harvested,
we harvested."
January 26, 2016
A lot of mentions of birds, animals, flowers, and the weather, but for the most part sticking to the subject promised.
About a third of the collection is comprised of the long poem, "Eighteen Days Without You". "December 4th", "December 15th", and "December 18th" are the best sections, methinks.
Other poems worth noting:
"The Ballad of the Lonely Masturbator"
"Barefoot"
"Mr. Mine'
She is the sum of yourself and your dream.
Climb her like a monument, step after step.
She is solid.
As for me, I am watercolor.
I wash off. - "For My Lover, Returning to His Wife"
I'm Ethan Frome's wife. I'll move when I'm able. - "The Break"
If she were a room to rent I would pay. - "The Interrogation of the Man of Many Hearts"
About a third of the collection is comprised of the long poem, "Eighteen Days Without You". "December 4th", "December 15th", and "December 18th" are the best sections, methinks.
Other poems worth noting:
"The Ballad of the Lonely Masturbator"
"Barefoot"
"Mr. Mine'
She is the sum of yourself and your dream.
Climb her like a monument, step after step.
She is solid.
As for me, I am watercolor.
I wash off. - "For My Lover, Returning to His Wife"
I'm Ethan Frome's wife. I'll move when I'm able. - "The Break"
If she were a room to rent I would pay. - "The Interrogation of the Man of Many Hearts"
August 14, 2024
I did giggle but overall didn’t hit for me, I’m no poet
September 29, 2008
One of my favorites. Knife-twisting in your inside-feeling parts. Completely necessary. If I had enough skin I would have "Eighteen Days Without You" tattooed somewhere.
September 18, 2017
La Sexton, genio folle e visionario, sensuale poetessa femminea, attrice sul palcoscenico della vita, crea poesie che non possono lasciare indifferenti.
Maestra dello stile cosìdetto "confessionale", come Lowell o la Plath, esibisce i suoi demoni, le sue fragilità, i suoi ruggiti, le sua sensibilità ferita, la sua carica sensuale e anticonformista, lo stile selvaggio e dissacrante.
NEL PROFONDO MUSEO
Dio, Dio mio, in che angolo strano mi sono cacciata?
Sono morta o no? Il sangue che scorre dal palo,
i polmoni in affanno, morta per le peccata
di tutti, dalla bocca amara l’anima mia esalo?
Sicuro, sono morta? Veramente il corpo è andato?
Eppure, lo so, ci sono. Ma dove sono qua?
Freddo e strano, sono infernetichita. Ho simulato.
Sì, simulato, o per stramaledetta viltà
il mio corpo non mi ha renduta. Allora tocco
fra le mani l’abitino e le guance infreddolite.
Se questo è l’inferno, l’inferno mi par poco,
né così tipico né così brutto come dite.
Cos’è quella cosa che mi sento grufando raspare
vicino? La lingua che scosta un sassolino e lo boccia
mentre scivola dentro sovrana. Come faccio a pregare?
Sta ansimando, è un odore con una faccia
che sembra pelle d’asino. Mi slappa le ferute.
Mentre tocco la sua testolina: è ferito, deduco.
Sanguina. Ho perdonato assassini e prostitute
e ora aspetto come il vecchio Giona non già deceduto
né vivo, carezzando una bestia maldestra. Un ratto.
Mi assaggia coi denti, con la pazienza di una cuoca
che sa a mente la ricetta. Gli perdòno ciò che ha fatto
come perdonassi il mio Giuda per i soldi che cucca.
Ora porto alle labbra le sue rosse tenere piaghe.
Ai suoi fratelli, turba di angeli pelosi, mi sacrifico.
Ho caviglie scanalate, perdo fianchi anche
e polsi. Per tre giorni un’altra morte santifico,
per amor dell’amore. Oh, non in aere,
in polvere. Sotto le vene marce delle sue radici,
sotto i mercati, sotto un letto di pecore
dove collina è cibo, sotto i frutti fradici
della vigna, io scendo. Dentro mascelle e panze
di ratti rimetto la mia profezia e l’orrore.
Molto sotto la Croce, correggo le sue deficienze.
Abbiamo mantenuto il miracolo. Per ancora poche ore.
Maestra dello stile cosìdetto "confessionale", come Lowell o la Plath, esibisce i suoi demoni, le sue fragilità, i suoi ruggiti, le sua sensibilità ferita, la sua carica sensuale e anticonformista, lo stile selvaggio e dissacrante.
NEL PROFONDO MUSEO
Dio, Dio mio, in che angolo strano mi sono cacciata?
Sono morta o no? Il sangue che scorre dal palo,
i polmoni in affanno, morta per le peccata
di tutti, dalla bocca amara l’anima mia esalo?
Sicuro, sono morta? Veramente il corpo è andato?
Eppure, lo so, ci sono. Ma dove sono qua?
Freddo e strano, sono infernetichita. Ho simulato.
Sì, simulato, o per stramaledetta viltà
il mio corpo non mi ha renduta. Allora tocco
fra le mani l’abitino e le guance infreddolite.
Se questo è l’inferno, l’inferno mi par poco,
né così tipico né così brutto come dite.
Cos’è quella cosa che mi sento grufando raspare
vicino? La lingua che scosta un sassolino e lo boccia
mentre scivola dentro sovrana. Come faccio a pregare?
Sta ansimando, è un odore con una faccia
che sembra pelle d’asino. Mi slappa le ferute.
Mentre tocco la sua testolina: è ferito, deduco.
Sanguina. Ho perdonato assassini e prostitute
e ora aspetto come il vecchio Giona non già deceduto
né vivo, carezzando una bestia maldestra. Un ratto.
Mi assaggia coi denti, con la pazienza di una cuoca
che sa a mente la ricetta. Gli perdòno ciò che ha fatto
come perdonassi il mio Giuda per i soldi che cucca.
Ora porto alle labbra le sue rosse tenere piaghe.
Ai suoi fratelli, turba di angeli pelosi, mi sacrifico.
Ho caviglie scanalate, perdo fianchi anche
e polsi. Per tre giorni un’altra morte santifico,
per amor dell’amore. Oh, non in aere,
in polvere. Sotto le vene marce delle sue radici,
sotto i mercati, sotto un letto di pecore
dove collina è cibo, sotto i frutti fradici
della vigna, io scendo. Dentro mascelle e panze
di ratti rimetto la mia profezia e l’orrore.
Molto sotto la Croce, correggo le sue deficienze.
Abbiamo mantenuto il miracolo. Per ancora poche ore.
April 27, 2021
2.5/5
More than a decade ago, at the very beginning of my deep dive into the world of serious involvement with literature, I had a habit of paying extremely close attention to any chapter epigraphs that happened to grace whatever work I was reading. Not only would I transcribe them to a quickly ballooning Word document, but also research the author and/or work in the hopes of being able to acquire the full text that the intriguing tidbit came from and read it myself. Sexton's The Death Notebooks was one of those works, discovered in a beloved work of teen fantasy, and it took so many years to track down a copy that, when this particular piece showed up priced at nary a song, I couldn't resist. A few years later, after having found TDN to be rather disappointing, I finally came to read this, and while it went comparatively better for me than that first collection of Sexton's, I feel that, at this point, I can affirmatively state that it would be best for this poet and I to go our separate ways. There's the usual commentary on my lackluster engagement with poetry as a whole, but also on certain themes that, as was the case with TDN, haven't aged well, as well as a general mismatch between this collection's overall mood and my own needs. A poorly timed choice on my part to read this when I did, perhaps, but it's likely been poorly timed for the last 13 months, and with this lined up for my 2021 challenge during the last few days of Poetry Month, it was better now than never.
However one goes about it, reading is an intensely personal activity, and if it weren't for the sense my younger self had in seeking out meaningful interpretations of her own existence through the works she read, I know for a fact that I would be in much more dire straits today. These days, though, while I still keep track of authors whose relevant biographical details made me think I would gain valuable insight into my own condition through reading of theirs, fictionally expressed or otherwise, the needs I look to fulfill are more complex. Much as I value those authors who ended their own existence in the drop whose hypothetical see saw between no and yes confronts me on a regular basis, I've also come to the hard but true realization that none of these writers are infallible gods, and that it is just as fine to dislike their writing for being uncritically dehumanizing in certain respects as it is to not be able to fully engage because the syntax/sentence structures/themes that aren't to my particular liking. One piece in this collection, 'Just Once', rang true enough with me without excessive futzing or roleplay grotesqueries that I'd gladly count it amongst my collection of favorites, but the rest were either too hit or miss or left me cold for me to bring them out and set them up so that they may speak for themselves. They are certainly love poems, but I've lived out too much of dysfunction and associated interpersonal issues to crave it in my engagement with creative works unless there is many a digression to flesh out the narrative world far beyond the pull and tug of selfish brats who somehow are of legal age enough to drink and drive. This collection was not that large in scope beyond scattered references and the odd obtusely invoked historical detail, so as soon as the more positively sensual ones dried up, so too did a large measure of my interest. The last, 'Eighteen Days Without You', had a building sense of deeply felt flung out compassion that I enjoyed, but absence does make the heart grow fonder, so it may have just all been an excess of sentiment.
After this, I can safely say that anything else of Sexton's, however alluringly it is packaged à la 'complete works' and such, will not be receiving my attention. After a decade of unknowing hypotheticals, I came, I saw, and in the space of three years, I contemplated the author's writing for what it was, and I have now decided that it is not for me. There's a chance that, had I stumbled across TDN much sooner than I ended up doing, it would have proved as potent, as would have Sexton's art in general, as it has for many others, edgier and relatively uninformed as I was back then. However, neither of those are healthy states, much less sustainable, so the way things ended up falling out may have been for the best. For Sexton is another example of a certain breed of white woman author of her period, alongside the likes of Plath and Highsmith and co., who did certain things very very well in an antiestablishment way whilst simultaneously cleaving to the nastier aspects of the status quo in ways all the more distasteful amongst the otherwise great work, and, these days, I hold them to higher standards accordingly. Chances are good that I'll find myself among them and/or more of their kind in future reading periods, but for now, I feel comfortable closing the book on this particular writer, least until the winds change and I find reason to open them up again.
More than a decade ago, at the very beginning of my deep dive into the world of serious involvement with literature, I had a habit of paying extremely close attention to any chapter epigraphs that happened to grace whatever work I was reading. Not only would I transcribe them to a quickly ballooning Word document, but also research the author and/or work in the hopes of being able to acquire the full text that the intriguing tidbit came from and read it myself. Sexton's The Death Notebooks was one of those works, discovered in a beloved work of teen fantasy, and it took so many years to track down a copy that, when this particular piece showed up priced at nary a song, I couldn't resist. A few years later, after having found TDN to be rather disappointing, I finally came to read this, and while it went comparatively better for me than that first collection of Sexton's, I feel that, at this point, I can affirmatively state that it would be best for this poet and I to go our separate ways. There's the usual commentary on my lackluster engagement with poetry as a whole, but also on certain themes that, as was the case with TDN, haven't aged well, as well as a general mismatch between this collection's overall mood and my own needs. A poorly timed choice on my part to read this when I did, perhaps, but it's likely been poorly timed for the last 13 months, and with this lined up for my 2021 challenge during the last few days of Poetry Month, it was better now than never.
However one goes about it, reading is an intensely personal activity, and if it weren't for the sense my younger self had in seeking out meaningful interpretations of her own existence through the works she read, I know for a fact that I would be in much more dire straits today. These days, though, while I still keep track of authors whose relevant biographical details made me think I would gain valuable insight into my own condition through reading of theirs, fictionally expressed or otherwise, the needs I look to fulfill are more complex. Much as I value those authors who ended their own existence in the drop whose hypothetical see saw between no and yes confronts me on a regular basis, I've also come to the hard but true realization that none of these writers are infallible gods, and that it is just as fine to dislike their writing for being uncritically dehumanizing in certain respects as it is to not be able to fully engage because the syntax/sentence structures/themes that aren't to my particular liking. One piece in this collection, 'Just Once', rang true enough with me without excessive futzing or roleplay grotesqueries that I'd gladly count it amongst my collection of favorites, but the rest were either too hit or miss or left me cold for me to bring them out and set them up so that they may speak for themselves. They are certainly love poems, but I've lived out too much of dysfunction and associated interpersonal issues to crave it in my engagement with creative works unless there is many a digression to flesh out the narrative world far beyond the pull and tug of selfish brats who somehow are of legal age enough to drink and drive. This collection was not that large in scope beyond scattered references and the odd obtusely invoked historical detail, so as soon as the more positively sensual ones dried up, so too did a large measure of my interest. The last, 'Eighteen Days Without You', had a building sense of deeply felt flung out compassion that I enjoyed, but absence does make the heart grow fonder, so it may have just all been an excess of sentiment.
After this, I can safely say that anything else of Sexton's, however alluringly it is packaged à la 'complete works' and such, will not be receiving my attention. After a decade of unknowing hypotheticals, I came, I saw, and in the space of three years, I contemplated the author's writing for what it was, and I have now decided that it is not for me. There's a chance that, had I stumbled across TDN much sooner than I ended up doing, it would have proved as potent, as would have Sexton's art in general, as it has for many others, edgier and relatively uninformed as I was back then. However, neither of those are healthy states, much less sustainable, so the way things ended up falling out may have been for the best. For Sexton is another example of a certain breed of white woman author of her period, alongside the likes of Plath and Highsmith and co., who did certain things very very well in an antiestablishment way whilst simultaneously cleaving to the nastier aspects of the status quo in ways all the more distasteful amongst the otherwise great work, and, these days, I hold them to higher standards accordingly. Chances are good that I'll find myself among them and/or more of their kind in future reading periods, but for now, I feel comfortable closing the book on this particular writer, least until the winds change and I find reason to open them up again.
JUST ONCE
Just once I knew what life was for.
In Boston, quite suddenly, I understood;
walked there along the Charles River,
watched the lights copying themselves,
all neoned and strobe-hearted, opening
their mouths as wide as opera singers;
countered the stars, my little campaigners,
my scar daisies, and knew that I walked my love
on the night green side of it and cried
my heart to the eastbound cars and cried
my heart to the westbound cars and took
my truth across a small humped bridge
and hurried my truth, the charm of it, home
and hoarded these constants into morning
only to find them gone.
March 26, 2024
“an ordinary hand - just lonely
for something to touch
that touches it back”
💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌
for something to touch
that touches it back”
💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌
April 21, 2024
absolutely love.
February 9, 2024
She is so naked and singular! She is the sum of yourself and your dream! Your real witch! Your fork! Your skirtfull of hell!
October 15, 2019
I'm very glad I own this collection and can unwrap these poems over multiple reads. Each poem is multi-layered, dispair and deep sensuality wove together by sharp imagery and well constructed metaphors. Goodreads doesn't list the edition I own: 2 Printing Hardcovered book printed in 1969
2019: it's great to have bad memory, books I've read are new again. The lauguage and images of the poem Eighteen Days Without You stayed with me this time. "This is the mole-gray mouth of the year." A brilliant melding of image and mood.
2019: it's great to have bad memory, books I've read are new again. The lauguage and images of the poem Eighteen Days Without You stayed with me this time. "This is the mole-gray mouth of the year." A brilliant melding of image and mood.
September 25, 2018
Es la primera vez que leo algo de Anne Sexton y la verdad que estoy bastante sorprendida. En Poemas de amor la autora nos quiere transmitir su fractura emocional, sus momentos más delicados, como el accidente que tuvo en la cadera o sus sentimientos más profundos de desolación, rabia y depresión. Muchos de sus poemas me han transmitido esa barrera que Sexton quiso romper sobre la sociedad, el sexo y la literatura, algo que para ella era pura hipocresía. Creo que me queda mucho por descubrir de esta autora y no será la única obra que lea de ella.
March 29, 2015
And the heart too, that cripple, how it sang
once. How it thought it could call the shots!
once. How it thought it could call the shots!
December 25, 2020
This is my call to the writers for more poems with fish in them.
February 12, 2024
(3.5) hoewel ik niet veel van poëzie begrijp en zeker niet tot de kern van alle hechten kon komen in deze bundel. Vond ik de gedichten die ik wel begreep heel mooi en de uitgewerkte thematiek was soms wel erg intens maar door de manier van schrijven behapbaar. Mijn favoriete gedicht was The Papa and Mama Dance.
June 8, 2022
Sublime nel senso romantico del termine. Affascina e spaventa.
February 22, 2021
Another week, another five star Anne Sexton book. This one was about love- and anything I say on the subject feels trite right now after reading Sextons raw and beautiful words. Wow. Just wow.
May 4, 2019
Absolutely wonderful. Restored my faith in poetry.
Here is the opening poem:
The Touch
by Anne Sexton
For months my hand was sealed off
in a tin box. Nothing was there but the subway railings.
Perhaps it is bruised, I thought,
and that is why they have locked it up.
You could tell time by this, I thought,
like a clock, by its five knuckles
and the thin underground veins.
It lay there like an unconscious woman
fed by tubes she knew not of.
The hand had collapse,
a small wood pigeon
that had gone into seclusion.
I turned it over and the palm was old,
its lines traced like fine needlepoint
and stitched up into fingers.
It was fat and soft and blind in places.
Nothing but vulnerable.
And all this is metaphor.
An ordinary hand -- just lonely
for something to touch
that touches back.
The dog won't do it.
Her tail wags in the swamp for a frog.
I'm no better than a case of dog food.
She owns her own hunger.
My sisters won't do it.
They live in school except for buttons
and tears running down like lemonade.
My father won't do it.
He comes in the house and even at night
he lives in a machine made by my mother
and well oiled by his job, his job.
The trouble is
that I'd let my gestures freeze.
The trouble was not
in the kitchen or the tulips
but only in my head, my head.
Then all this became history.
Your hand found mine.
Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot.
Oh, my carpenter,
the fingers are rebuilt.
They dance with yours.
They dance in the attic and in Vienna.
My hand is alive all over America.
Not even death will stop it,
death shedding her blood.
Nothing will stop it, for this is the kingdom
and the kingdom come.
Here is the opening poem:
The Touch
by Anne Sexton
For months my hand was sealed off
in a tin box. Nothing was there but the subway railings.
Perhaps it is bruised, I thought,
and that is why they have locked it up.
You could tell time by this, I thought,
like a clock, by its five knuckles
and the thin underground veins.
It lay there like an unconscious woman
fed by tubes she knew not of.
The hand had collapse,
a small wood pigeon
that had gone into seclusion.
I turned it over and the palm was old,
its lines traced like fine needlepoint
and stitched up into fingers.
It was fat and soft and blind in places.
Nothing but vulnerable.
And all this is metaphor.
An ordinary hand -- just lonely
for something to touch
that touches back.
The dog won't do it.
Her tail wags in the swamp for a frog.
I'm no better than a case of dog food.
She owns her own hunger.
My sisters won't do it.
They live in school except for buttons
and tears running down like lemonade.
My father won't do it.
He comes in the house and even at night
he lives in a machine made by my mother
and well oiled by his job, his job.
The trouble is
that I'd let my gestures freeze.
The trouble was not
in the kitchen or the tulips
but only in my head, my head.
Then all this became history.
Your hand found mine.
Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot.
Oh, my carpenter,
the fingers are rebuilt.
They dance with yours.
They dance in the attic and in Vienna.
My hand is alive all over America.
Not even death will stop it,
death shedding her blood.
Nothing will stop it, for this is the kingdom
and the kingdom come.
February 10, 2015
There are bad poets, good poets, great poets and then there is Anne Sexton slyly rising to the side, above them all. Nonchalantly subversive, her "Love Poems" is both a snub and a continuation of a literary tradition. Who else but the Bostonian bard of witchery housewifery would have thought to versify the intoxications and mortifications that accompany an extramarital affair and then throw the brilliant "Ballad of the Lonely Masturbator" into the mix for good measure? In short, no one. Peerless and fearless, Sexton is the definition of a seductive agitator. Happy Valentine's Day!
August 18, 2018
The best poetry collection I've read, Anne Sexton's Love Poems tells a love story in the voice of the other woman, the mistress. This mistress, like the ones in medieval Romances, finds love only through this role of other woman, but here it's not the outside world that complicates the adultery, it's the mistress' own feelings about the affair and what it means, which is always changing, in one turn shooed and another affirmed.
July 29, 2017
in the grand tradition of jane austen, sylvia plath, and anais nin, I have fallne helplessly in love with suburbia once more
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