anne sexton

@danigirlbx asked me who anne sexton was and i immediately replied, 'she's an author.' i didn't even know how or why i knew that so i decided to do some research and come to find out she's amazing. and her life story is something i can relate to.  so let me tell u what i learned.

Anne Sexton was born in 1928.  she had a difficult relationship with her parents [her biographer noted sexual abuse] and turned to her great aunt, named nana, to escape from the reality of her alcoholic father and her mom who was a starving artist writer herself.  she ended up eloping with one guy while she was engaged to another. [sounds like something i did in a past life.] then her nana passed away shortly after the birth of her first daughter.  it was then that anne suffered from postpartum depression and had her first mental breakdown.  she started therapy and then ended up having another daughter, which eventually led to another spell of postpartum depression which also led to several suicide attempts.  in 1959, both her parents ended up passing away unexpectedly and the weight of her strained relationship with them took a toll.  while in therapy in an attempt to cope with her postpartum depression and the death of her loved ones, one of her doctors encouraged her to write and that she did.  her poetry was her confessional, laced with her despair, her fear, and her concerns vividly, with no shame for their ugliness.  she received acclaim for her bravery and her skill in writing and eventually became a celebrity. her writing was described as 'technically excellent' and drew readers in because they 'echoed her life.' [remember how i told y'all i don't want to be known for just having a talent? it's the skill that separates us something we've been given as opposed to something we create] anyway, despite the flashing lights, anne was dependent on doctors, medications, friends and lovers, torn between her talent and the life it described.  after an established career and notable acclaim Anne published the Death Notebooks in 1974 Anne finally succeeded...in killing herself.

Oh Anne. she was a tortured beauty.  i understand. because she's so brilliant, i'm gonna let her write this post for me. so i used her quotes with my life and came up with this. she speaks in italics & i write plain.

put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard

you may not like what you catch while you're eavesdropping, Anne

I am God, la de dah

Hmm...that's what the devil said right before he washed up on the shores of the Red Sea

plagued seven times over with thoughts of who he MIGHT be

and why would you want to be God anyway?

that's more responsibility than you're willing to bear

All I wanted was a little piece of life.  I was trying my damnedest to lead a conventional life.  But one can't build little white picket fences to keep the nightmares out

Well that's about the most honest thing you've said

Clearly

Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance

is that what you tell yourself to explain yourself? 

or even people like me?

people who write stories and convince the world they're just stories?

even so, i must admire your skill

you are so gracefully insane

as for me, i am a watercooler

i wash off

what does that even mean?

watercoolers can't love 

and i know you know how to love

cuz you ran off with your hair blowing in the wind and came back tied down to your ring finger

love? be it man. be it woman.  to love another is something like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief

you sound like a romantic

we don't believe in romance Anne

i am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face

live or die. but don't poison everything

are you really gonna sit here and blame me?

for the poison you call life?

Anne. you are broken. 

you are shattered pieces of glass but even still, that's a reminder that once upon a time you were solid

the soul was not cured

it was as full as a clothes closet

of dresses that did not fit

well, every woman has that problem

being sixteen in the pants i died full of questions

sixteen was much like fifteen and fourteen and thirteen and twelve

i was like a caterpillar who died before she got her wings

and i kept wondering how many virginities i would have to lose before i felt brand new

trying to be born again without admitting i died

and what of the dead? they refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone

take your foot out of the graveyard

they are busy being dead

Anne. a bit morbid, no?

a woman like that is not ashamed to die

i have been her kind

hmm. apples like that don't fall far from the tree so what seeds did your parents plant?

it doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who i remember he was

since you ask, most days i cannot remember

i walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage

then the almost unnameable lust returns

i like lust like i like him

it makes me blush

but grandma says you don't like people, you love people

you like things, so maybe i love him with one star from the entire sky's constellation

as it has been said

love and a cough cannot be concealed

even a small cough

even a small love

i don't know if i need all that

need is not quite belief

but our beliefs are everything we need without a reason why

like we believe in the after life to give us a reason for death

sometimes i could kill myself just to feel what it means to believe

suicides have a special language

like carpenters they want to know which tools

they never ask why build.

thank you Anne for joining me.