Anne Sexton: The Room of My Life

Anne Sexton: The Room of My Life
Here,in the room of my lifethe objects keep changing.Ashtrays to cry into,the suffering brother of the wood walls,the forty-eight keys of the typewritereach an eyeball that is never shut,the books, each a contestant in a beauty contest,the black chair, a dog coffin made of Naugahyde,the sockets on the wallwaiting like a cave of bees,the gold ruga conversation of heels and toes,the fireplacea knife waiting for someone to pick it up,the sofa, exhausted with the exertion of a whore,the phonetwo flowers taking root in its crotch,the doorsopening and closing like sea clams,the lightspoking at me,lighting up both the soil and the laugh.The windows,the starving windowsthat drive the trees like nails into my heart.Each day I feed the world out therealthough birds exploderight and left.I feed the world in here too,offering the desk puppy biscuits.However, nothing is just what it seems to be.My objects dream and wear new costumes,compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my handsand the sea that bangs in my throat.— from The Complete Poems of Anne Sexton (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1981)

Anne Sexton: The Room of My Life

Here,
in the room of my life
the objects keep changing.
Ashtrays to cry into,
the suffering brother of the wood walls,
the forty-eight keys of the typewriter
each an eyeball that is never shut,
the books, each a contestant in a beauty contest,
the black chair, a dog coffin made of Naugahyde,
the sockets on the wall
waiting like a cave of bees,
the gold rug
a conversation of heels and toes,
the fireplace
a knife waiting for someone to pick it up,
the sofa, exhausted with the exertion of a whore,
the phone
two flowers taking root in its crotch,
the doors
opening and closing like sea clams,
the lights
poking at me,
lighting up both the soil and the laugh.
The windows,
the starving windows
that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
Each day I feed the world out there
although birds explode
right and left.
I feed the world in here too,
offering the desk puppy biscuits.
However, nothing is just what it seems to be.
My objects dream and wear new costumes,
compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands
and the sea that bangs in my throat.

— from The Complete Poems of Anne Sexton (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1981)

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3 thoughts on “Anne Sexton: The Room of My Life

  1. Holly Friesen says:
  2. chinoise says:

    amazing! i didn’t know her but i sure will! thanks!

  3. dusty says:

    Wow! So that is a life?

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