Anne Sexton's confessional poetry demonstrates how deeply personal and emotionally raw subject matter—such as maternal grief, family estrangement, and intimate bodily experiences—can be transformed into powerful literary art that resonates universally, using vivid imagery and direct emotional expression to explore universal human experiences.
Anne Sexton Reads Her Poems: Housewife & More (1966)
Added:houses it's another kind of skin it has a heart a mouth a liver and bowel movements the walls are permanent in pink see how she sits on her knees all day Faithfully washing herself down men enter by force drawn back like Jonah into their fleshy mothers a woman is her mother that's the main thing no I won't and so I go to South America and you're in horse camp I cry all the time you're in horse camp yeah I know monkey I mean I get the so I have to sit remote I will who gets horse just like9 a French T you make it are we fake are we fake tell them we're fake turn around we're fake we don't love each other at all we hate each other and despise each other we just can't fear each other a h Ling between us oh my funny all right it's so easy to be natural when youve got this I mean that's for real pain for a daughter blind with the love my daughter has has cried nightly for horses those long necked Marchers and churners that she has mastered any and all rining them in like a circus hand the excitable muscles and the ripe neck tending this summer a pony and a fo she who is too squeamish to pull a thorn from a dog's paw watched her Pony Blossom with this temper the underside of the jaw swelling like an enormous grape gritting her teeth love she drained the boil and scoured it with hydrogen peroxide until pus ran like milk on the barn floor blind with loss all winter in dungar a ski jacket and a hard hat she visits the neighbor stable our acreage not zone for barns they who own the Flaming horses and the swan whipped throw bread that she tugs at and cajoles thinking that it will burn like a furnace under her small hipped English seat blind with pain she limps home the thorough bread has stood on her foot he rested there like a building he grew into her foot until they were one the marks of the Horseshoe printed into her flesh the tips of her toes ripped off like pieces of leather three toenails swirl like shells and left to float in blood in her riding Booth blind with fear she sits on the toilet her foot balanced over the wash basin her father hydrogen peroxide in hand performing the rights of the cleansing she bites on a towel sucked in breath sucked in and arched against the pain her eyes glancing off me where I stand at the door her eyes locked on the ceiling eyes of a stranger and then she cried oh my God help me or a child would have cried mama where a child would have believed mama she bit the towel and called on God and I saw her life stretch out I saw her torn in child birth and I saw her at that moment in her own death and I knew that she knew I probably this is a Beau what a monster I made you see instead of all l beauty from the throat I make monsters from where we want mention two sons where and to whom you are married I can only guess in my peace meal fashion I grow old on my bitterness on the unique occasion of your two sudden wedding days I opened some cheap wine a tin of lobster and mayonnaise I sit in an old ladyes room where families used to Feast while the wind blows in like soot from North Northeast both of you monopolized with no real forwarding address except for two silly postcards you bothered to send home one of them written in Greece as you undid her dress in Mexico the other air mail to Boston from Rome just before before the small ceremony at the American church both of you made of my cooking those suppers of starch and beef and with my library my medicine my bath water both sinking into small brown pools like muddy otters you make a toast for tomorrow and smash the cup letting your false women laugh the dish I had to fatten up when you come back I'll buy a wig of yellow hair I'll squat in a new red dress I'll be playing soli on the kitchen floor yes I'll gather myself in like cut flowers and ask you how you are and where you've been I knew you forever and you were always old soft white lady of my heart surely you would scold me for sitting up late reading your letters as if these foreign postmarks Were Meant For Me you posted them first in London wearing Furs and a new dress in the winter of 1890 I read how London is dull on Lord mayor's day where you guided past groups of robbers the sad holes of White Chapel clutching your pocketbook on the way to Jack the Ripper dissecting his famous bones this Wednesday in Berlin you say you will go to a Bazaar at bismar house and I see you as a young girl in a good world still writing three generations before mine I tried to reach into your page and breathe it back but life is a trick like life is a kitten in a sack this is the sack of time your death vacates how distant you are on your nickel plated skates in the skating park in Berlin gliding past me with your count while a military band plays A Strauss Walts I loved you last a pleated old lady with a crooked hand once you read Lo and gin and every Goose hung High while you practice Castle life in Hanover tonight your letters reduce history to a guess the count had a wife you were the old made Aunt who lived with us tonight I read how the to Winter tonight I read how the winter howled around the towers of slush Ferber how the tedious language grew in your jaw how you loveed the sound of the music of the rats tapping on the stone floors when you were mine you wore an earphone can you cut from an ey let the dog in or will she disturb everything okay you were the old maid Aunt who lived with us tonight I read how the winter howled around the towers of slush fber how the tedious language grew in your jaw how you love the sound of the music of the rats tapping on the stone floors when you were mine you weree an earphone this is Wednesday May near lucern Switzerland 69 years ago I learn your first climb up Mount s salvator this is the rocky path the hole in your shoes the Yankee girl the iron interior of her sweet body you let the count choose your next climb you went together armed with alpine stocks with ham sandwiches and seltzer vaser you were not alarmed by the thick Woods of briers and bushes nor the rugged Cliff nor the first vertigo up over Lake lucern the count sweated with his coat off as you waited through top snow he held your hand and kissed you you rattle down on the train to catch a steamboat for home or other postmarks Aras Barona Rome this is Italy you learn its mother tongue I read how you walked on the Palatine among the ruins of the Palaces of the Caesars alone in the Roman autumn alone since July when you were mine they wrapped you out of here with your best hat over your face I cried because I was 17 I am older now I read how your student ticket admitted you into the private Chapel of the Vatican and how you cheered with the others as we used to do on the 4th of July one Wednesday in November you watched a balloon painted like a silver ball float up over the Forum up over the Lost Empress to shiver its little modern cage in an occasional Breeze you worked your New England conscience out beside Artisans Chestnut vendors and The Devout tonight I will learn to love you twice learn your first days your mid Victorian face tonight I will speak up and interrupt your letters warning you that Wars are coming that the count will die that you will accept your America back to live like a prim thing on the farm in Maine I tell you you will come here to the suburbs of Boston to see the blue-nosed world go drunk each night to see the handsome children Jitterbug to feel your left ear close one Friday at Symphony and I tell you you will tip your boot feet out of that Hall rocking from its sour sound out under the crowded Street letting your spectacle fall and your hairnet tangle as you stuck passers by to mumble your guilty love while your ears die
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