The Complete Poems

The Complete Poems

by Anne Sexton

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The collected works of Anne Sexton showcase the astonishing career of one of the twentieth century’s most influential poets

For Anne Sexton, writing served as both a means of expressing the inner turmoil she experienced for most of her life and as a therapeutic force through which she exorcised her demons. Some of the richest poetic descriptions of depression, anxiety, and desperate hope can be found within Sexton’s work. The Complete Poems, which includes the eight collections published during her life, two posthumously published books, and other poems collected after her death, brings together her remarkable body of work with all of its range of emotion.
With her first collection, the haunting To Bedlam and Part Way Back, Sexton stunned critics with her frank treatment of subjects like masturbation, incest, and abortion, blazing a trail for representations of the body, particularly the female body, in poetry. She documented four years of mental illness in her moving Pulitzer Prize–winning collection Live or Die, and reimagined classic fairy tales as macabre and sardonic poems in Transformations. The Awful Rowing Toward God, the last book finished in her lifetime, is an earnest and affecting meditation on the existence of God. As a whole, The Complete Poems reveals a brilliant yet tormented poet who bared her deepest urges, fears, and desires in order to create extraordinarily striking and enduring art.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781504034364
Publisher: Open Road Media
Publication date: 04/05/2016
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 622
Sales rank: 451,989
File size: 2 MB

About the Author

Anne Sexton (1928–1974) was a Pulitzer Prize–winning American poet born in Newton, Massachusetts. She attended Garland Junior College for one year and briefly worked as a model. She married Alfred Muller Sexton II at age nineteen, and in 1953 gave birth to a daughter. Shortly after, she was diagnosed with postpartum depression. When Sexton attempted suicide after the birth of her second daughter, her doctor encouraged her to pursue her interest in writing poetry, and in the fall of 1957, she enrolled in a poetry workshop at the Boston Center for Adult Education.
Like Robert Lowell, Sylvia Plath, W. D. Snodgrass (who exerted a great influence on her work), and other Confessional poets, Sexton offers the reader an intimate view of the emotional anguish that characterized her life. The experience of being a woman was a central issue in her poetry, and though she endured criticism for bringing subjects such as menstruation, abortion, and drug addiction into her work, her skill as a poet transcended the controversy over her subject matter. Sexton’s poetry collections include To Bedlam and Part Way Back, All My Pretty Ones, Transformations, and Live or Die, which won the Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 1967. In 1974 at the age of forty-six, Sexton lost her battle with mental illness and committed suicide.

Read an Excerpt

The Complete Poems

By Anne Sexton


Copyright © 1981 Linda Gray Sexton and Loring Conant, Jr. executors of the will of Anne Sexton
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5040-3436-4


To Bedlam and Part Way Back


To Kayo who waited

It is the courage to make a clean breast of it in face of every question that makes the philosopher. He must be like Sophocles's Oedipus, who, seeking enlightment concerning his terrible fate, pursues his indefatigable enquiry, even when he divines that appalling horror awaits him in the answer. But most of us carry in our heart the Jocasta who begs Oedipus for God's sake not to inquire further ... From a letter of Schopenhauer to Goethe, November 1815



You, Doctor Martin, walk
from breakfast to madness. Late August,
I speed through the antiseptic tunnel
where the moving dead still talk
of pushing their bones against the thrust
of cure. And I am queen of this summer hotel
or the laughing bee on a stalk

of death. We stand in broken
lines and wait while they unlock
the door and count us at the frozen gates
of dinner. The shibboleth is spoken
and we move to gravy in our smock
of smiles. We chew in rows, our plates
scratch and whine like chalk

in school. There are no knives
for cutting your throat. I make
moccasins all morning. At first my hands
kept empty, unraveled for the lives
they used to work. Now I learn to take
them back, each angry finger that demands
I mend what another will break

tomorrow. Of course, I love you;
you lean above the plastic sky,
god of our block, prince of all the foxes.
The breaking crowns are new
that Jack wore. Your third eye
moves among us and lights the separate boxes
where we sleep or cry.

What large children we are
here. All over I grow most tall
in the best ward. Your business is people,
you call at the madhouse, an oracular
eye in our nest. Out in the hall
the intercom pages you. You twist in the pull
of the foxy children who fall

like floods of life in frost.
And we are magic talking to itself,
noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins
forgotten. Am I still lost?
Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself,
counting this row and that row of moccasins
waiting on the silent shelf.


For a man needs only to be turned around once with his eyes shut in this world to be lost. ... Not til we are lost ... do we begin to find ourselves.

Thoreau, Walden

    Kind Sir: This is an old game
    that we played when we were eight and ten.
    Sometimes on The Island, in down Maine,
    in late August, when the cold fog blew in
    off the ocean, the forest between Dingley Dell
    and grandfather's cottage grew white and strange.
    It was as if every pine tree were a brown pole
    we did not know; as if day had rearranged
    into night and bats flew in sun. It was a trick
    to turn around once and know you were lost;
    knowing the crow's horn was crying in the dark,
    knowing that supper would never come, that the coast's
    cry of doom from that far away bell buoy's bell
    said your nursemaid is gone. O Mademoiselle,
    the rowboat rocked over. Then you were dead.
    Turn around once, eyes tight, the thought in your head.

    Kind Sir: Lost and of your same kind
    I have turned around twice with my eyes sealed
    and the woods were white and my night mind
    saw such strange happenings, untold and unreal.
    And opening my eyes, I am afraid of course
    to look — this inward look that society scorns —
    Still, I search in these woods and find nothing worse
    than myself, caught between the grapes and the thorns.


    All day we watched the gulls
    striking the top of the sky
    and riding the blown roller coaster.
    Up there
    godding the whole blue world
    and shrieking at a snip of land.

    Now, like children,
    we climb down humps of rock
    with a bag of dinner rolls,
    left over,
    and spread them gently on a stone,
    leaving six crusts for an early king.

    A single watcher comes hawking in,
    rides the current round its hunger
    and hangs
    carved in silk
    until it throbs up suddenly,
    out, and one inch over water;

    to come again
    smoothing over the slap tide.
    To come bringing its flock, like a city
    of wings that fall from the air.
    They wait, each like a wooden decoy
    or soft like a pigeon or

    a sweet snug duck:
    until one moves, moves that dart-beak
    breaking over. It has the bread.
    The world is full of them,
    a world of beasts
    thrusting for one rock.

    Just four scoop out the bread
    and go swinging over Gloucester
    to the top of the sky.
    Oh see how
    they cushion their fishy bellies
    with a brother's crumb.


    Wait Mister. Which way is home?
    They turned the light out
    and the dark is moving in the corner.
    There are no sign posts in this room,
    four ladies, over eighty,
    in diapers every one of them.
    La la la, Oh music swims back to me
    and I can feel the tune they played
    the night they left me
    in this private institution on a hill.

    Imagine it. A radio playing
    and eyeryone here was crazy.
    I liked it and danced in a circle.
    Music pours over the sense
    and in a funny way
    music sees more than I.
    I mean it remembers better;
    remembers the first night here.
    It was the strangled cold of November;
    even the stars were strapped in the sky
    and that moon too bright
    forking through the bars to stick me
    with a singing in the head.
    I have forgotten all the rest.

    They lock me in this chair at eight a.m.
    and there are no signs to tell the way,
    just the radio beating to itself
    and the song that remembers
    more than I. Oh, la la la,
    this music swims back to me.
    The night I came I danced a circle
    and was not afraid.


    Today the circus poster
    is scabbing off the concrete wall
    and the children have forgotten
    if they knew at all.
    Father, do you remember?
    Only the sound remains,
    the distant thump of the good elephants,
    the voice of the ancient lions
    and how the bells
    trembled for the flying man.
    I, laughing,
    lifted to your high shoulder
    or small at the rough legs of strangers,
    was not afraid,
    You held my hand
    and were instant to explain
    the three rings of danger.
    Oh see the naughty clown
    and the wild parade
    while love love
    love grew rings around me.
    This was the sound where it began;
    our breath pounding up to see
    the flying man breast out
    across the boarded sky
    and climb the air.
    I remember the color of music
    and how forever
    all the trembling bells of you
    were mine.



    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
    Grown baby short as you looked up last
    At my face swinging over the human bed,
    And somewhere you cried, let me go let me go.

    You lay in the crate of your last death,
    But were not you, not finally you.
    They have stuffed her cheeks, I said;
    This clay hand, this mask of Elizabeth
    Are not true. From within the satin
    And the suede of this inhuman bed,
    Something cried, let me go let me go.


    They gave me your ash and bony shells,
    Rattling like gourds in the cardboard urn,
    Rattling like stones that their oven had blest.
    I waited you in the cathedral of spells
    And I waited you in the country of the living,
    Still with the urn crooned to my breast,
    When something cried, let me go let me go.

    So I threw out your last bony shells
    And heard me scream for the look of you,
    Your apple face, the simple crèche
    Of your arms, the August smells
    Of your skin. Then I sorted your clothes
    And the loves you had left, Elizabeth,
    Elizabeth, until you were gone.


    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 eighteen-ninety.
    I read how London is dull on Lord Mayor's Day,
    where you guided past groups of robbers, the sad holes
    of Whitechapel, 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 Bismarck's house. And I
    see you as a young girl in a good world still,
    writing three generations before, mine. I try
    to reach into your page and breathe it back ...
    but life is a trick, 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 waltz. I loved you last,
    a pleated old lady with a crooked hand.
    Once you read Lohengrin and every goose
    hung high while you practiced castle life
    in Hanover. Tonight your letters reduce
    history to a guess. The Count had a wife.
    You were the old maid aunt who lived with us.
    Tonight I read how the winter howled around
    the towers of Schloss Schwöbber, how the tedious.
    language grew in your jaw, how you loved the sound
    of the music of the rats tapping on the stone
    floors. When you were mine you wore an earphone.

    This is Wednesday, May 9th, near Lucerne,
    Switzerland, sixty-nine years ago. I learn
    your first climb up Mount San Salvatore;
    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 wasser. You were not alarmed
    by the thick woods of briars and bushes,
    nor the rugged cliff, nor the first vertigo
    up over Lake Lucerne. The Count sweated
    with his coat off as you waded through top snow.
    He held your hand and kissed you. You rattled
    down on the train to catch a steamboat for home;
    or other postmarks: Paris, Verona, 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 seventeen. 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 Fourth of July. One Wednesday in November
    you watched a balloon, painted like a silver ball,
    float up over the Forum, up over the lost emperors,
    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-nose
    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 onto
    the crowded street, letting your spectacles fall
    and your hair net tangle as you stop passers-by
    to mumble your guilty love while your ears die.


    West Harwich, Massachusetts, 1954–1959

    Here, in front of the summer hotel
    the beach waits like an altar.
    We are lying on a cloth of sand
    while the Atlantic noon stains
    the world in light.

      It was much the same
    five years ago. I remember
    how Ezio Pinza was flying a kite
    for the children. None of us noticed
    it then. The pleated lady
    was still a nest of her knitting.
    Four pouchy fellows kept their policy
    of gin and tonic while trading some money.
    The parasol girls slept, sun-sitting
    their lovely years. No one thought
    how precious it was, or even how funny
    the festival seemed, square rigged in the air.
    The air was a season they had bought,
    like the cloth of sand.

      I've been waiting
    on this private stretch of summer land,
    counting these five years and wondering why.
    I mean, it was different that time
    with Ezio Pinza flying a kite.
    Maybe, after all, he knew something more
    and was right.


Excerpted from The Complete Poems by Anne Sexton. Copyright © 1981 Linda Gray Sexton and Loring Conant, Jr. executors of the will of Anne Sexton. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Table of Contents


A Note on the Text,
Publisher's Note,
How It Was: Maxine Kumin on Anne Sexton,
To Bedlam And Part Way Back (1960),
All My Pretty Ones (1962),
Live or Die (1966),
Love Poems (1969),
Transformations (1971),
The Book of Folly (1972),
The Death Notebooks (1974),
The Awful Rowing Toward God (1975),
Index of Titles,
About the Author,

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The Complete Poems 4.3 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 3 reviews.
msmalnick on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
still, after all these years and education and life and whatnot, my favorite poet
valentipoetry on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
The first poetry I ever read as a child. This woman helped form the writer I am today. This book contains all her poems.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I've always been drawn to confessional poetry, so inevitably one of the first poets I came across when I started researching this genre was Anne Sexton. I was immediately addicted. Anne Sexton was a brilliant poet with a brutally honest voice and I was hooked. The first book I bought of hers is proof of this -every other page is dog-eared and about 90% of it is highlighted. I am still fascinated by her poetry and how she never shied away from any topic. Her life, heartbreaking and tumultuous is basically chronicled in her collection of poems throughout the years. The Complete Poems by Anne Sexton is exactly what it claims to be. It is a massive and truly complete collection. This book is an absolute must have! *I received a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review*