Anne Sexton at home - 1 (VOSE)
Anne Sexton at home reading Wanting to Die
Anne Sexton reading her poem "All My Pretty Ones"
Diane Middlebrook's interview on Anne Sexton biography (Part 1)
Rare Film Clips Of The Poet Anne Sexton
Anne Sexton reads "For My Lover Returning to his Wife"
biography of anne sexton
Anne Sexton reads: 'Houswife', 'Pain for a Daughter', 'Two Sons', and 'Some Foreign Letters', 1966
Anne Sexton Reads "Her Kind"
The poet Anne Sexton on words and music.
Anne Sexton reading her poem "Self in 1958"
Ann Sexton - You've been gone too long
Anne Sexton reads: 'Her Kind' 1966
Anne Sexton reads "The Truth The Dead Know"
Anne Sexton at home - 1 (VOSE)
Anne Sexton at home reading Wanting to Die
Anne Sexton reading her poem "All My Pretty Ones"
Diane Middlebrook's interview on Anne Sexton biography (Part 1)
Rare Film Clips Of The Poet Anne Sexton
Anne Sexton reads "For My Lover Returning to his Wife"
biography of anne sexton
Anne Sexton reads: 'Houswife', 'Pain for a Daughter', 'Two Sons', and 'Some Foreign Letters', 1966
Anne Sexton Reads "Her Kind"
The poet Anne Sexton on words and music.
Anne Sexton reading her poem "Self in 1958"
Ann Sexton - You've been gone too long
Anne Sexton reads: 'Her Kind' 1966
Anne Sexton reads "The Truth The Dead Know"
Anne Sexton performing "Woman With Girdle" with her band "Her Kind"
NC Poetry Out Loud 2010 - "Her Kind" by Anne Sexton
ann sexton-you're losing me
Wanting To Die by Anne Sexton - Poetry Reading
Vanessa Daou - Dear Anne Sexton
Anne Sexton reading her poem "The Starry Night"
ANN SEXTON - YOU'VE BEEN GONE TO LONG
Anne Sexton reading her poem "Ringing The Bells"
Wanting To Die--Read By Anne Sexton
Diane Middlebrook interview on Anne Sexton Biography (Part 3 - Final)
Diane Middlebrook interview on Anne Sexton Biography (Part 2)
Julie Kane on Confessional Poetry, Anne Sexton
Anne Sexton reading "Gods"
My Anne Sexton Interveiw(Impression) [by: Melissa Castro]
The Starry Night by Anne Sexton
Anne Sexton en español - 1
Anne Sexton (November 9, 1928, Newton, Massachusetts – October 4, 1974, Weston, Massachusetts) was an American poet, known for her highly personal, confessional verse. She won the Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 1967. Themes of her poetry include her suicidal tendencies, long battle against depression and various intimate details from her private life, including her relationships with her husband and children.
Anne Sexton was born Anne Gray Harvey in Newton, Massachusetts to Mary Gray Staples and Ralph Harvey. She spent most of her childhood in Boston. In 1945 she enrolled at Rogers Hall boarding school, Lowell, Massachusetts, later spending a year at Garland School. For a time she modeled for Boston's Hart Agency. On August 16, 1948, she married Alfred Sexton and they remained together until 1973. She had two children named Linda Gray and Joyce Ladd.
Sexton suffered from severe mental illness for much of her life, her first manic episode taking place in 1954. After a second episode in 1955 she met Dr Martin Orne, who became her long-term therapist at the Glenside Hospital, and encouraged her to take up poetry.
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.