Death poems
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The Fury Of Jewels And Coal
© Anne Sexton
Many a miner has gone
into the deep pit
to receive the dust of a kiss,
an ore-cell.
The Assassin
© Anne Sexton
The correct death is written in.
I will fill the need.
My bow is stiff.
My bow is in readiness.
The Break
© Anne Sexton
It was also my violent heart that broke,
falling down the front hall stairs.
It was also a message I never spoke,
calling, riser after riser, who cares
Patmos
© Friedrich Hölderlin
The god
Is near, and hard to grasp.
But where there is danger,
A rescuing element grows as well.
The Fury Of Sunrises
© Anne Sexton
Darkness
as black as your eyelid,
poketricks of stars,
the yellow mouth,
The Child Bearers
© Anne Sexton
Jean, death comes close to us all,
flapping its awful wings at us
and the gluey wings crawl up our nose.
Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs,
The Death King
© Anne Sexton
I hired a carpenter
to build my coffin
and last night I lay in it,
braced by a pillow,
It Is A Spring Afternoon
© Anne Sexton
Everything here is yellow and green.
Listen to its throat, its earthskin,
the bone dry voices of the peepers
as they throb like advertisements.
The Fury Of Hating Eyes
© Anne Sexton
I would like to bury
all the hating eyes
under the sand somewhere off
the North Atlantic and suffocate
Old
© Anne Sexton
I'm afraid of needles.
I'm tired of rubber sheets and tubes.
I'm tired of faces that I don't know
and now I think that death is starting.
Red Is The Color Of Blood
© Conrad Aiken
Red is the color of blood, and I will seek it:
I have sought it in the grass.
You, Doctor Martin
© Anne Sexton
You, Doctor Martin, walk
from breakfast to madness. Late August,
I speed through the antiseptic tunnel
where the moving dead still talk
The Fury Of Beautiful Bones
© Anne Sexton
Sing me a thrush, bone.
Sing me a nest of cup and pestle.
Sing me a sweetbread fr an old grandfather.
Sing me a foot and a doorknob, for you are my love.
The Angel Food Dogs
© Anne Sexton
No point? No twist for you
in my white tunnel?
Let me speak plainly,
let me whisper it from the podium--
The Break Away
© Anne Sexton
I pray it will know truth,
if truth catches in its cup
and yet I pray, as a child would,
that the surgery take.
Doubtful Dreams
© Adam Lindsay Gordon
Aye, snows are rife in December,
And sheaves are in August yet,
For John, Who Begs Me Not To Enquire Further
© Anne Sexton
Not that it was beautiful,
but that, in the end, there was
a certain sense of order there;
something worth learning
Elizabeth Gone
© Anne Sexton
1.You lay in the nest of your real death,
Beyond the print of my nervous fingers
Where they touched your moving head;
Your old skin puckering, your lungs' breath
The Red Dance
© Anne Sexton
There was a girl
who danced in the city that night,
that April 22nd,
all along the Charles River.
