Anne Sexton Dylan Thomas Emily Dickinson Sylvia Plath Virginia Woolf
Featured poem by Anne Sexton
I have gone out,a possessed witch
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.
I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.
I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.
--Anne Sexton
From: To Bedlam and Part Way Back (1960)
This side of the truth
you may not see, my son,
King of your blue eyes
In the blinding country of youth.
That all is undone,
Under the unminding skies,
Of innocence and guilt
Before you move to make
One gesture of the heart or head,
is gathered and split
Into the winding dark
Like the dust of the dead.
Good and bad, two ways
Of moving about your death
By the grinding sea,
King of your heart in the blind days,
Blow away like breath,
Go crying through you and me
And the souls of all men.
Into the innocence
Dark, and the guilty dark, and good
Death, and bad death, and then
In the last element
Fly like the star's blood.
Like the sun's tears,
Like the moon's seed, rubbish
And fire, the flying rant
Of the sky, king of your six years.
And the wicked wish,
down the beginning of plants
And animals and birds,
Water and Light,the earth and sky,
Is cast before you move,
And all your deeds and words,
Each truth, each lie,
Die in unjudging love.
--Dylan Thomas
It burned me in the night,
I thought that storm was brief,
It struck me every day
The lightning was as new
As if the cloud that instant slit
And let the fire through
It blistered in my dream;
It sickened fresh upon my sight
With every morning's beam
The maddest, quickest by;
But Nature lose the date of this,
And left it in the sky.
Each that we lose takes part of us;
A crescent still abides,
Which like the moon, some turbid night,
Is summoned by the tides.
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