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 SextonThe snow has quietness in it; no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.
Anne SextonThen 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.
Anne SextonNot that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there; something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind
Anne Sexton