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. vA 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.
This is a poem I sometimes go back to for inspiration. It's one of my favorites. The subject is daring, something not many people would talk about so beautifully when it's actually a dark one. Yet she did, and she tendered it with care, and didn't make it into something forbidden but something forsaken.
i stopped reading a lot of poetry a long time ago because i realized i'm impatient by heart , but it's also because not all poetry is like this, and she is still so so astonishingly good.
Our poetry Prof. always asks us this questions "why did American writers commit suicide?" She mentions a number of them A. Sexton, S. Plath, and many others. She never gives us the answer. I answer "maybe because they live in a mad world of America..and they are so sensitive" to which she answered "Maybe."
suicide is hard to do, that's why we do it, we went to the moon and still people drained themselves fully in the bathtub as it was happening on tv in the hotel, or some regretfully immobile hearing the giant leap with the empty bottle of seconal finishing its job.
I believe that's more due to your aesthetic proclivity at the current juncture rather than Sexton's poetics. She served as an impetus for you at some point, and largely, you couldn't be where you are without that influence, regardless of how strongly or weakly you relate to her verse now. You can't dismiss that. Nor can you dismiss her influence on many others besides yourself. If anything, she's very universal. But at a specific time and place for each reader.
Well said. As if it was more 'kosher' for her and her readers when she wrote poetry without having mental problems with the associated problems. In fact her Pshyciatr told her to write it all down by means of theraphy. Its just because of her problems that her poems are perfect. And then some dude tries to put both her problems and writing skills on a scale and thinks he can make somekind of moral judgment.out of the result. Yes, sometimes peoples can read and are big fail at the same time.
боли, нали. :) красотата боли - като раждането на живот. всеки живот е концепция за вселена. целта на музиката и изкуствата, е знанието за споделянето и сливането на вселени, а любовта е само врата. точката в която вселените и измеренията се споделят, наричаме бог. бог прилича на невъобразим, многоизмерен френски ключ, от който излизат невъобразими, многоизмерни - и разни други нишки. подозирам, че това е нещо забравено от някой преди нас по пътя -нещо като във фантастиката на братя Стругатски - ""Пикник край пътя". :) пътят е сливане на красотата с първоизточникът и. кръгът се завършва и се отключва спиралата на сътворение. можеш ли да бъдеш сътворение? насладете се на пътешествието - или не :)))
I guess i wont be coming over there since you are still attäched to your wife. It explains why i havent heard from you sinei told you my plans i hoped you wouil be hppy, thouhh tyou really woutd want me with you. But i was mistken. I ill keep my love for you her so to not interfere with your marital blissi. I ill always love you and i m sorry it came to this. I thought you loved me and i thought wrong
A fan and a sparring fan of Sexton as a 16 year old gay man, I find it difficult 20 years later to defend her reputation as a poet. To me, she is no longer and inspiration, no longer a go-to; she has nothing much to say in terms of speaking to a universal audience. Plath, ultimately, might fall into such a class, but even her failures or vainest attempts far outclass Sexton's supposed triumphs. In the end, Plath is a minor poet beleaguering a non-poet. Sexton is already in danger of relegation.
@@patricias5122 I agree with you, Plath is a fantastic poet and the reason I got into poetry in the first place. Sexton is also a superb poet and the way she reads her own poetry is exceptional. I think that the comment by the original commenter is not only incorrect in its judgement but also comes across as rather arrogant in the type of language used.
"As for me, I am a watercolor.
I wash off."
Oh my goodness. Anne Sexton's words are like tiny ladders breaking into my skin to make me taller.
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.
vA 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.
thank you
Ann's poetry is no "watercolor," it is a "monument" - it will not "wash off" it is truly "solid."
This is a poem I sometimes go back to for inspiration. It's one of my favorites. The subject is daring, something not many people would talk about so beautifully when it's actually a dark one. Yet she did, and she tendered it with care, and didn't make it into something forbidden but something forsaken.
Incredible stuff. I miss every poem she never got to write.
she was needed in this world. I miss her too.
"Let's face it, I have been momentary.
A luxury."
I would guess that Ann Sexton did not write this poem, she lived it...
That's basically what poetry is...
i stopped reading a lot of poetry a long time ago because i realized i'm impatient by heart , but it's also because not all poetry is like this, and she is still so so astonishingly good.
I think what's so interesting about this poem is how much sympathy she has for the wife as opposed to herself
What a woman... Love her poetry. So strong and it made her even more beautiful.
Step after step she is solid, As for me I am a watercolor. I WASH OFF.
this is painfully beautiful.
I have a crush on Anne Sexton's lover's wife.
She sounds so tired and done here. She is unmatched, I think
Anne was heartbreakingly a genius....
She's a genius I love her
Mee too, shes one of my fav poet ♡ check out my channel, i just made a tribute for her! :)
@@TheLisergicQueen Not for the genius, it is everywhere, but for the strength of sentiment, the permission given...
I still love anne sexton's work. inspirational.
I can't say that I love all of her work, but when she wrote some beauties SHE WROTE SOME BEAUTIES!
my heart aches
I didn’t know Anne Sexton’s voice is deep and captivating 😱
Theres something so strange and intimate about hearing her poetry spoken in her own voice.
Beautifully brilliant woman,I do admire her
Beautiful and brilliant.
I always been momentary and not reliable...solitude pours over me across de years with some casual rays of light...
So brilliant...
Our poetry Prof. always asks us this questions "why did American writers commit suicide?" She mentions a number of them A. Sexton, S. Plath, and many others. She never gives us the answer. I answer "maybe because they live in a mad world of America..and they are so sensitive" to which she answered "Maybe."
suicide is hard to do, that's why we do it, we went to the moon and still people drained themselves fully in the bathtub as it was happening on tv in the hotel, or some regretfully immobile hearing the giant leap with the empty bottle of seconal finishing its job.
It isn’t only American writers who have committed suicide, not at all, what an odd question.
Brilliant
Wow❤
Esse bate tão forte
@ebourquetunes WOW!! that's bizarre! i didn't know this, how did you find this out? Is it in Dianne Middlebrookes book??
I believe that's more due to your aesthetic proclivity at the current juncture rather than Sexton's poetics. She served as an impetus for you at some point, and largely, you couldn't be where you are without that influence, regardless of how strongly or weakly you relate to her verse now. You can't dismiss that. Nor can you dismiss her influence on many others besides yourself. If anything, she's very universal. But at a specific time and place for each reader.
oh lord.. how terrible, how beautiful.
Well said. As if it was more 'kosher' for her and her readers when she wrote poetry without having mental problems with the associated problems. In fact her Pshyciatr told her to write it all down by means of theraphy. Its just because of her problems that her poems are perfect. And then some dude tries to put both her problems and writing skills on a scale and thinks he can make somekind of moral judgment.out of the result. Yes, sometimes peoples can read and are big fail at the same time.
Of the two women in her poem, which had she been?
Sounds so creepy....
боли, нали. :) красотата боли - като раждането на живот. всеки живот е концепция за вселена.
целта на музиката и изкуствата, е знанието за споделянето и сливането на вселени, а любовта е само врата. точката в която вселените и измеренията се споделят, наричаме бог. бог прилича на невъобразим, многоизмерен френски ключ, от който излизат невъобразими, многоизмерни - и разни други нишки. подозирам, че това е нещо забравено от някой преди нас по пътя -нещо като във фантастиката на братя Стругатски - ""Пикник край пътя". :) пътят е сливане на красотата с първоизточникът и. кръгът се завършва и се отключва спиралата на сътворение. можеш ли да бъдеш сътворение?
насладете се на пътешествието - или не :)))
She was said to have had many affairs, so, yes, most likely.
I guess i wont be coming over there since you are still attäched to your wife. It explains why i havent heard from you sinei told you my plans i hoped you wouil be hppy, thouhh tyou really woutd want me with you. But i was mistken. I ill keep my love for you her so to not interfere with your marital blissi. I ill always love you and i m sorry it came to this. I thought you loved me and i thought wrong
A fan and a sparring fan of Sexton as a 16 year old gay man, I find it difficult 20 years later to defend her reputation as a poet. To me, she is no longer and inspiration, no longer a go-to; she has nothing much to say in terms of speaking to a universal audience. Plath, ultimately, might fall into such a class, but even her failures or vainest attempts far outclass Sexton's supposed triumphs. In the end, Plath is a minor poet beleaguering a non-poet. Sexton is already in danger of relegation.
Plath is no "minor poet," you (sexist) fool.
As for Sexton, she had no academic training and still defines a genre and generation.
i have to wonder how you feel a decade after writing this comment
Plath is hardly a minor poet what a strange and misogynistic comment, laughably opinionated and very uninformed. Looking for attention?
@@patricias5122 I agree with you, Plath is a fantastic poet and the reason I got into poetry in the first place. Sexton is also a superb poet and the way she reads her own poetry is exceptional. I think that the comment by the original commenter is not only incorrect in its judgement but also comes across as rather arrogant in the type of language used.
Drunk cigarette like my dipped organ in a drug filled moment