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Il libro della follia
Il libro della follia è la prima traduzione integrale in italiano di The Book of Folly, che Anne Sexton diede alle stampe nel 1972. Lo stile confessionale che aveva reso celebre l’autrice, fruttandole nel 1967 il premio Pulitzer, giunge qui alla piena maturità trasformandosi nell’allegoria di un Gran Teatro psichedelico. La Signora Benestante che scrive occasionalmente versi rispettando le forme metriche lascia il posto, definitivamente e consapevolmente, al personaggio della Poetessa Martire della società benpensante e all’aspirante suicida, in un rovesciamento parodico dei valori patriarcali, accostando l’alto senso del tragico all’ironia e alla caricatura, la metafora lirica al sarcasmo più blasfemo. Nell’unico libro in cui Anne Sexton, diversamente femminista e profeta di tempi peggiori, sperimenta con la prosa, inscenando in tre “storie” l’anoressia, il femminicidio e il suicidio-della-poetessa, assistiamo al crollo delle fondamenta dei luoghi comuni e dei riti borghesi e religiosi del puritanesimo statunitense. Con una scrittura più vicina a quella delle canzoni rock che alla poesia sua contemporanea, la lingua inconfondibile della Follia di Anne Sexton ha influenzato, per stile e tematiche, non solo la poesia successiva americana e poi internazionale, ma anche la scrittura di divi del pop rock come Peter Gabriel e Kate Bush.Rosaria Lo Russo
118 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1972
13 people are currently reading
435 people want to read
About the author
Anne Sexton
149 books2,492 followersAnne Sexton once told a journalist that her fans thought she got better, but actually, she just became a poet. These words are characteristic of a talented poet that received therapy for years, but committed suicide in spite of this. The poetry fed her art, but it also imprisoned her in a way.
Her parents didn’t expect much of her academically, and after completing her schooling at Rogers Hall, she went to a finishing school in Boston. Anne met her husband, Kayo (Alfred Muller Sexton II), in 1948 by correspondence. Her mother advised her to elope after she thought she might be pregnant. Anne and Kayo got married in 1948 in North Carolina. After the honeymoon Kayo started working at his father-in-law’s wool business.
In 1953 Anne gave birth to her first-born, Linda Gray. Two years later Linda’s sister, Joyce Ladd, was born. But Anne couldn’t cope with the pressure of two small children over and above Kayo’s frequent absence (due to work). Shortly after Joy was born, Anne was admitted to Westwood Lodge where she was treated by the psychiatrist Dr. Martha Brunner-Orne (and six months later, her son, Dr. Martin Orne, took over). The original diagnosis was for post-natal depression, but the psychologists later decided that Anne suffered from depression of biological nature.
While she was receiving psychiatric treatment, Anne started writing poetry. It all started after another suicide attempt, when Orne came to her and told her that she still has a purpose in life. At that stage she was convinced that she could only become a prostitute. Orne showed her another talent that she had, and her first poetry appeared in print in the January of 1957. She wrote a huge amount of poetry that was published in a dozen poetry books. In 1967 she became the proud recipient of the Pulitzer Prize for Live or Die (1966).
In March 1972 Anne and Kayo got divorced. After this a desperate kind of loneliness took over her life. Her addiction to pills and alcohol worsened. Without Kayo the house was very quiet, the children were at college and most of Anne’s friends were avoiding her because they could no longer sympathize with her growing problems. Her poetry started playing such a major role in her life that conflicts were written out, rather than being faced. Anne didn’t mention a word to Kayo about her intention to get divorced. He knew that she desperately needed him, but her poems, and her real feelings toward him, put it differently. Kayo talks about it in an interview as follows: “... I honestly don’t know, never have known, what her real, driving motive was in the divorce. Which is another reason why it absolutely drove me into the floor like a nail when she did it.”
On 4 October 1974 she put on her mother’s old fur coat before, glass of vodka in hand, she climbed into her car, turned the key and died of monodioxide inhalation. She once told Orne that “I feel like my mother whenever I put it [the fur coat] on”. Her oldest daughter, Linda, was appointed as literary executor and we have her to thank for the three poetry books that appeared posthumously.
Her parents didn’t expect much of her academically, and after completing her schooling at Rogers Hall, she went to a finishing school in Boston. Anne met her husband, Kayo (Alfred Muller Sexton II), in 1948 by correspondence. Her mother advised her to elope after she thought she might be pregnant. Anne and Kayo got married in 1948 in North Carolina. After the honeymoon Kayo started working at his father-in-law’s wool business.
In 1953 Anne gave birth to her first-born, Linda Gray. Two years later Linda’s sister, Joyce Ladd, was born. But Anne couldn’t cope with the pressure of two small children over and above Kayo’s frequent absence (due to work). Shortly after Joy was born, Anne was admitted to Westwood Lodge where she was treated by the psychiatrist Dr. Martha Brunner-Orne (and six months later, her son, Dr. Martin Orne, took over). The original diagnosis was for post-natal depression, but the psychologists later decided that Anne suffered from depression of biological nature.
While she was receiving psychiatric treatment, Anne started writing poetry. It all started after another suicide attempt, when Orne came to her and told her that she still has a purpose in life. At that stage she was convinced that she could only become a prostitute. Orne showed her another talent that she had, and her first poetry appeared in print in the January of 1957. She wrote a huge amount of poetry that was published in a dozen poetry books. In 1967 she became the proud recipient of the Pulitzer Prize for Live or Die (1966).
In March 1972 Anne and Kayo got divorced. After this a desperate kind of loneliness took over her life. Her addiction to pills and alcohol worsened. Without Kayo the house was very quiet, the children were at college and most of Anne’s friends were avoiding her because they could no longer sympathize with her growing problems. Her poetry started playing such a major role in her life that conflicts were written out, rather than being faced. Anne didn’t mention a word to Kayo about her intention to get divorced. He knew that she desperately needed him, but her poems, and her real feelings toward him, put it differently. Kayo talks about it in an interview as follows: “... I honestly don’t know, never have known, what her real, driving motive was in the divorce. Which is another reason why it absolutely drove me into the floor like a nail when she did it.”
On 4 October 1974 she put on her mother’s old fur coat before, glass of vodka in hand, she climbed into her car, turned the key and died of monodioxide inhalation. She once told Orne that “I feel like my mother whenever I put it [the fur coat] on”. Her oldest daughter, Linda, was appointed as literary executor and we have her to thank for the three poetry books that appeared posthumously.
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March 1, 2025
”Trafficare con le parole mi tiene sveglia.”
Alla seconda silloge di Anne Sexton mi rendo poco che so veramente troppo poco di lei.
So che è nata in una famiglia agiata ma da cui non ha ricevuto amore.
So che di lei si è occupata la zia zitella Anna, detta Nana.
So che ha un certo punto della sua vita (credo ancora adolescente) qualcosa si è interrotto. E’ successo qualcosa oppure in lei c’era già un malessere?
Mai come nella poesia c’è bisogno di avere questo tipo di risposte e, in particolar modo, quando i componimenti vengono definiti “confessionali”.
Vero che si può comunque inventare ma più di tanto non credo ci possa allontanare dalle proprie esperienze.
Io la penso così.
Leggendo queste pagine, quindi, so che mi sono sfuggite molte cose.
Qualcosa ha spiegato in post fazione la traduttrice ma molto altro credo proprio di non averlo afferrato.
La raccolta è suddivisa in quattro sezioni poetiche:
1. Trenta poesie
2. Morte dei padri
3. Angeli degli affari di cuori
4. Carte di Gesù
Più tre brevissimi racconti in prosa
A parte, la svolta religiosa delle ultime poesie l’unico filo che trovo sempre presente è quello della morte (facendo una ricerca la parola “morte” ritorna 41 volte!).
Nell’insieme, però, le atmosfere surreali unite sicuramente ad una musicalità molto più significativa in originale piuttosto che tradotta mi lasciano un po’ con l’amaro in bocca.
Non è mai bello non comprendere appieno:
è come essere invitati ad una festa e, poi, ignorati da tutti, rimanere in un angolo ad ascoltare discorsi che cerchiamo di ricomporre con piccoli indizi.
E allora spero di essere invitata un’altra volta.
Tornerò preparata perché so che ne vale la pena...
>”prima era il pannolino che avevo/addosso sporco e mia /madre mi odiava per questo e io/mi amavo per questo ma l’odio/vinceva, no?, certo, e il disprezzo/ vinceva e il disgusto vinceva e per/ questo io sono un’accumulatrice di parole /le tengo dentro anche se sono/ sterco oh Dio sono una che scava /non sono un’oziosa /vero?
Alla seconda silloge di Anne Sexton mi rendo poco che so veramente troppo poco di lei.
So che è nata in una famiglia agiata ma da cui non ha ricevuto amore.
So che di lei si è occupata la zia zitella Anna, detta Nana.
So che ha un certo punto della sua vita (credo ancora adolescente) qualcosa si è interrotto. E’ successo qualcosa oppure in lei c’era già un malessere?
Mai come nella poesia c’è bisogno di avere questo tipo di risposte e, in particolar modo, quando i componimenti vengono definiti “confessionali”.
Vero che si può comunque inventare ma più di tanto non credo ci possa allontanare dalle proprie esperienze.
Io la penso così.
Leggendo queste pagine, quindi, so che mi sono sfuggite molte cose.
Qualcosa ha spiegato in post fazione la traduttrice ma molto altro credo proprio di non averlo afferrato.
La raccolta è suddivisa in quattro sezioni poetiche:
1. Trenta poesie
2. Morte dei padri
3. Angeli degli affari di cuori
4. Carte di Gesù
Più tre brevissimi racconti in prosa
A parte, la svolta religiosa delle ultime poesie l’unico filo che trovo sempre presente è quello della morte (facendo una ricerca la parola “morte” ritorna 41 volte!).
Nell’insieme, però, le atmosfere surreali unite sicuramente ad una musicalità molto più significativa in originale piuttosto che tradotta mi lasciano un po’ con l’amaro in bocca.
Non è mai bello non comprendere appieno:
è come essere invitati ad una festa e, poi, ignorati da tutti, rimanere in un angolo ad ascoltare discorsi che cerchiamo di ricomporre con piccoli indizi.
E allora spero di essere invitata un’altra volta.
Tornerò preparata perché so che ne vale la pena...
>”prima era il pannolino che avevo/addosso sporco e mia /madre mi odiava per questo e io/mi amavo per questo ma l’odio/vinceva, no?, certo, e il disprezzo/ vinceva e il disgusto vinceva e per/ questo io sono un’accumulatrice di parole /le tengo dentro anche se sono/ sterco oh Dio sono una che scava /non sono un’oziosa /vero?
July 2, 2025
Anne Sexton is speaking to me from the grave. Dickinson too. With words like "Immortality" and images like a "fly...buzzing..." and death, and death.
She has said, "I didn't get better. I became a poet."
I would like a simple life
yet all night I am laying
poems away in a long box.
It is my immortality box,
my lay-away plan,
my coffin.
I feel her asking God, as she holds her warm cup of cocoa, God, isn't this enough? To just sit here?
Dear God, wouldn't it be good enough, to just drink cocoa?
She holds the cup in her hand
that warm brown mama
Anne was reaching for the Divine. With all her strength.
She has said, "I didn't get better. I became a poet."
I would like a simple life
yet all night I am laying
poems away in a long box.
It is my immortality box,
my lay-away plan,
my coffin.
I feel her asking God, as she holds her warm cup of cocoa, God, isn't this enough? To just sit here?
Dear God, wouldn't it be good enough, to just drink cocoa?
She holds the cup in her hand
that warm brown mama
Anne was reaching for the Divine. With all her strength.
May 10, 2025
Interessante ma probabilmente non era il mio, almeno non in questo momento. Traduzione italiana atroce, leggetelo in inglese.
December 14, 2024
Anne Sexton, una psiche labile e una penna incisiva, potente, che dalle esperienze personali è riuscita a tirare fuori un sentiero per la collettività. Premio Pulitzer nel 1967, nel ’74 decise di togliersi la vita, in macchina, con il monossido di carbonio, nuda con indosso una pelliccia, lasciando solo parole piene di verità.
“Poesia confessionale” sembra essere oggi definizione con intento dispregiativo di un tipo di poesia che non si cura molto della forma per mettere a nudo i propri drammi personali; ma quello che emerge dalle parole di Sexton è cura per un’anima in fiamme, assenza di preoccupazione per ciò che può sembrare un delirio personale avvolto dalla sola compagnia della solitudine.
Sexton, “like a lion in a zoo”, espone la sua carnalità, il suo fascino regale e la sua profonda disperazione.
“A recluse, yes. Yet each day I attract thousands.”
Alla continua ricerca di una prospettiva che sembra mai arrivare, salvo poi accorgersi che è il tentativo il vero motore.
Siamo certi che, una volta raggiunto ciò che desideriamo, saremo davvero felici? O forse la vera felicità risiede nel cammino della ricerca?
“Poesia confessionale” sembra essere oggi definizione con intento dispregiativo di un tipo di poesia che non si cura molto della forma per mettere a nudo i propri drammi personali; ma quello che emerge dalle parole di Sexton è cura per un’anima in fiamme, assenza di preoccupazione per ciò che può sembrare un delirio personale avvolto dalla sola compagnia della solitudine.
Sexton, “like a lion in a zoo”, espone la sua carnalità, il suo fascino regale e la sua profonda disperazione.
“A recluse, yes. Yet each day I attract thousands.”
Alla continua ricerca di una prospettiva che sembra mai arrivare, salvo poi accorgersi che è il tentativo il vero motore.
Siamo certi che, una volta raggiunto ciò che desideriamo, saremo davvero felici? O forse la vera felicità risiede nel cammino della ricerca?
July 4, 2024
yesterday he built me a country and laid out a shadow where i could sleep
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January 5, 2023aa really enjoyed this one it's a brilliant collection for looking at Anne structure. especially fond of part II The Jesus Papers every line is so effortlessly crafted they are precisely What they need to be. THey're pared, compared to some other Sexton (which is not a negative). it's not the Plathean discipline - every syllable a meteor - but it is precisely what the poem Needs a
March 29, 2020
I should really know better than to read Sexton on a rainy afternoon in quarantine. Her words lance straight through to the wriggle of despair. A painful read but oh those lines.
April 20, 2025
6/10.
It has its moments, but with a poor execution.
The first part was really good, since it was more strictly confessional poetry and Anne Sexton was already a veteran at this point. Nothing to complain about. Actually, the religious references made it slightly ironic, which gave more depth to the poems.
The second part, Three Stories, tried to blend what I think was what would become the modern day poetic landscape, but at that day it was just a bad collection of similar concepts strung together. And to add to that, Sexton obsesses over certain ones, like the Vaas-ian "You are me, and I am you" which after 5 pages of the same stuff tired me.
Last part was basically trying to apply psychoanalysis to the Bible, which is quite weird, especially coming from her, who went to psychiatrists. And it pointed out another bad aspect of this poetry collection: the constant use of anthropomorphization.
It has its moments, but with a poor execution.
The first part was really good, since it was more strictly confessional poetry and Anne Sexton was already a veteran at this point. Nothing to complain about. Actually, the religious references made it slightly ironic, which gave more depth to the poems.
The second part, Three Stories, tried to blend what I think was what would become the modern day poetic landscape, but at that day it was just a bad collection of similar concepts strung together. And to add to that, Sexton obsesses over certain ones, like the Vaas-ian "You are me, and I am you" which after 5 pages of the same stuff tired me.
Last part was basically trying to apply psychoanalysis to the Bible, which is quite weird, especially coming from her, who went to psychiatrists. And it pointed out another bad aspect of this poetry collection: the constant use of anthropomorphization.
July 6, 2022
anne sexton is my new favorite poet, if you couldn’t fucking tell. which is bad. like really bad. she’s in the sylvia plath category of highly controversial mentally unwell white women from the 20th century who wrote about their sadness as if it was the most profound but also worst thing in the world and no one would ever be as sad or even begin to understand them who were horrible people. but i think sexton’s controversy is like ten times worse than plath’s. so though she wrote beautifully she she was really a bad person. god i need to read a biography on this nutcase. but anyways this was the first book of poetry by her i read and it was so beautiful. unhinged at times, but beautiful. definitely my favorite so far. in these poems she writes about how she literally hates her children and her father. like in such a deranged way. she also dances around the whole to be a woman is to be consumed idea in this one, which i think is why i liked it so much. this is definitely a book i could write a long ass review on, because if it’s not obvious, oh boy am i willing to do that. believe me when i say i already have a long review drafted in my notes app. but maybe no one cares. maybe i’ve failed to consider that maybe the things that are special to me should only be special to me and only me. and these poems are very special to me. maybe the most special ever. i hate being the target audience for this genre of crazy bitches. because every time i read anything by them i love it with my whole heart. at least i’m self aware. my favorite poems were the ambition bird, the wifebeater, going gone, anna who was mad, the hex, the red shoes, the other, the silence, killing the spring, oysters, angel of hope and calendars, jesus suckles, jesus asleep, jesus raises the harlot, jesus summons forth, jesus dies, jesus unborn, and the author of the jesus papers speaks. a lot of calling jesus out by name in this one. there were also three short stories in here that i absolutely loved. like all three of them were beautiful.
March 5, 2021
There’s some startlingly good poems in here...but there’s also a bit of calculated chaff filler. I can feel Sexton eyeing me over her typewriter, over half a century gone, asking ‘what will shock them? what will tiltilate?’ and it cheapens the experience just a touch.
But perhaps then I’m also reaching my own point of oversaturation with her works, and can’t quite get the picture her daughter painted of the writer out of my mind. Before, she was the voice of God, of my own unconscious, issuing nearly out of thin air all around me- now she’s starting to feel like a depressed housewife, trying to write her way out of her own place and time. This is not a criticism- but after the way her previous work touched me, I can’t help but feel a smidge disappointed.
But perhaps then I’m also reaching my own point of oversaturation with her works, and can’t quite get the picture her daughter painted of the writer out of my mind. Before, she was the voice of God, of my own unconscious, issuing nearly out of thin air all around me- now she’s starting to feel like a depressed housewife, trying to write her way out of her own place and time. This is not a criticism- but after the way her previous work touched me, I can’t help but feel a smidge disappointed.
May 8, 2016
Anne Sexton as a poet is excellent with her strong presence, sense of flow, and unsettling imagery. She can't really carry it over to the short story format however, which accounts for about a third of this collection. Her strengths as a poet get tangled up when it comes to telling a story in prose, and it comes out as a weird hybrid that, while unique, isn't quite satisfying as either poem or short story. The book is still worth it for the poems though.
September 3, 2013
Dark and treacherous introspective poetry. Nevertheless, it flows effortlessly and soars to dizzying emotional heights. The whole collection is peppered with Freudian allusions, but oh well. Her imagery, no matter how metaphoric, dazzles.
March 21, 2025
its awesome to read the jesus papers after going to a screening of catherine breillat's debut film
September 16, 2025
las imágenes transmitidas en fragmentos donde se disocia la realidad de la locura... un elixir.
November 11, 2019
A bit unsatisfying, her weakest collection of poetry I've read so far, but worth reading. Highlights ~ "the ambition bird" "oh" "the wife beater " "the hex" "killing the spring" "the death of the fathers" "angels of the love affair" and "Jesus summons forth".
June 25, 2019
Elogio de la locura
Primero un poco de honestidad intelectual: conozco a la traductora, creo que de otro modo no hubiese llegado a este libro.
En la poesía me pasa algo que también sucede con cualquier libro pero de un modo visceral: o hay onda y te encanta o no conectás y sentís que estás en otra sintonía. Bueno con este libro venía sintiendo eso hasta que llegué a un poema sobre la muerte de los padres - tema universal si los hay - y ahí me copé. También me gustaron mucho los últimos dedicados a una biografía, por decirle de algún modo de Jesús.
Anne Sexton es una poeta grosa, ganadora de un Pulitzer, no se la pierdan, acá tienen una oportunidad de leerla en castellano.
Van tres estrellas porque soy amigo de Noelia Torres, si le pusiera más me criticarían el favoritismo.
Primero un poco de honestidad intelectual: conozco a la traductora, creo que de otro modo no hubiese llegado a este libro.
En la poesía me pasa algo que también sucede con cualquier libro pero de un modo visceral: o hay onda y te encanta o no conectás y sentís que estás en otra sintonía. Bueno con este libro venía sintiendo eso hasta que llegué a un poema sobre la muerte de los padres - tema universal si los hay - y ahí me copé. También me gustaron mucho los últimos dedicados a una biografía, por decirle de algún modo de Jesús.
Anne Sexton es una poeta grosa, ganadora de un Pulitzer, no se la pierdan, acá tienen una oportunidad de leerla en castellano.
Van tres estrellas porque soy amigo de Noelia Torres, si le pusiera más me criticarían el favoritismo.
October 16, 2020
The business of words keeps me awake.
I am drinking cocoa,
that warm brown mama.
I would like a simple life
yet all night I am laying
poems away in a long box.
It is my immortality box,
my lay-away plan,
my coffin.
All night dark wings
flopping in my heart.
Each an ambition bird.
I am drinking cocoa,
that warm brown mama.
I would like a simple life
yet all night I am laying
poems away in a long box.
It is my immortality box,
my lay-away plan,
my coffin.
All night dark wings
flopping in my heart.
Each an ambition bird.
January 19, 2022
We are America.
We are the coffin fillers.
We are the grocers of death.
We pack them in crates like cauliflowers.
The bomb opens like a shoebox.
And the child?
The child is certainly not yawning.
And the woman?
The woman is bathing her heart.
It has been torn out of her
and because it is burnt
and as a last act
she is rinsing it off in the river.
This is the death market.
America,
where are your credentials?
* * *
My room is whitewashed,
as white as a rural station house
and just as silent;
whiter than chicken bones
bleaching in the moonlight,
pure garbage,
and just as silent.
There is a white statue behind me
and white plants
growing like obscene virgins,
pushing out their rubbery tongues
but saying nothing.
My hair is the one dark.
It has been burnt in the white fire
and is just a char.
My beads too are black,
twenty eyes heaved up
from the volcano,
quite contorted.
I am filling the room
with the words from my pen.
Words leak out of it like a miscarriage.
I am zinging words out into the air
and they come back like squash balls.
Yet there is silence.
Always silence.
Like an enormous baby mouth.
The silence is death. It comes each day with its shock
to sit on my shoulder, a white bird,
and peck at the black eyes
and the vibrating red muscle
of my mouth.
* * *
Oysters we ate,
sweet blue babies,
twelve eyes looked up at me,
running with lemon and Tabasco.
I was afraid to eat this father-food
and Father laughed
and drank down his martini,
clear as tears.
It was a soft medicine
that came from the sea into my mouth,
moist and plump.
I swallowed.
It went down like a large pudding.
Then I ate one o'clock and two o'clock.
Then I laughed and then we laughed
an let me take note -
there was a death,
the death of childhood
there at the Union Oyster House
for I was fifteen
and eating oysters
and the child was defeated.
The woman won.
* * *
Angels of fire and genitals, do you know slime,
that green mama who first forced me to sing,
who put me first in the latrine, that pantomime
of brown where I was beggar and she was king?
I said, "The devil is down that festering hole."
Then he bit me in the buttocks and took over my soul.
Fire woman, you of the ancient flame, you
of the Bunsen burner, you of the candle,
you of the blast furnace, you of the barbecue,
you of the fierce solar energy, Mademoiselle,
take some ice, take some snow, take a month of rain
and you would gutter in the dark, cracking up your brain.
Mother of fire, let me stand at your devouring gate
as the sun dies in your arms and you loosen its terrible weight.
* * *
It was the year
of the How To Sex Book,
the Sensuous Man and Woman were frolicking
but Jesus was fasting.
He ate His celibate life.
The ground shuddered like an ocean,
a great sexual swell under His feet.
His scrolls bit each other.
He was shrouded in gold like nausea.
Outdoors the kitties hung from their mother's tits
like sausages in a smokehouse.
Roosters cried all day, hammering for love.
Blood flowed from the kitchen pump
but He was fasting.
His sex was sewn onto Him like a medal
and His penis no longer arched with sorrow over Him.
He was fasting.
He was like a great house
with no people,
no plans.
* * *
In my dream
I milked a cow,
the terrible udder
like a great rubber lily
sweated in my fingers
and as I yanked,
waiting for the moon juice,
waiting for the white mother,
blood spurted from it
and covered me with shame.
Then God spoke to me and said:
People say only good things about Christmas.
If they want to say something bad,
they whisper.
So I went to the well and drew a baby
out of the hollow water.
Then God spoke to me and said:
Here. Take this gingerbread lady
and put her in your oven.
When the cow gives blood
and the Christ is born
we must all eat sacrifices.
We must all eat beautiful women.
We are the coffin fillers.
We are the grocers of death.
We pack them in crates like cauliflowers.
The bomb opens like a shoebox.
And the child?
The child is certainly not yawning.
And the woman?
The woman is bathing her heart.
It has been torn out of her
and because it is burnt
and as a last act
she is rinsing it off in the river.
This is the death market.
America,
where are your credentials?
- The Firebombers, pg. 15
* * *
"The more I write, the more the silence seems
to be eating away at me."
- C.K. Williams
My room is whitewashed,
as white as a rural station house
and just as silent;
whiter than chicken bones
bleaching in the moonlight,
pure garbage,
and just as silent.
There is a white statue behind me
and white plants
growing like obscene virgins,
pushing out their rubbery tongues
but saying nothing.
My hair is the one dark.
It has been burnt in the white fire
and is just a char.
My beads too are black,
twenty eyes heaved up
from the volcano,
quite contorted.
I am filling the room
with the words from my pen.
Words leak out of it like a miscarriage.
I am zinging words out into the air
and they come back like squash balls.
Yet there is silence.
Always silence.
Like an enormous baby mouth.
The silence is death. It comes each day with its shock
to sit on my shoulder, a white bird,
and peck at the black eyes
and the vibrating red muscle
of my mouth.
- The Silence, pg. 32-33
* * *
Oysters we ate,
sweet blue babies,
twelve eyes looked up at me,
running with lemon and Tabasco.
I was afraid to eat this father-food
and Father laughed
and drank down his martini,
clear as tears.
It was a soft medicine
that came from the sea into my mouth,
moist and plump.
I swallowed.
It went down like a large pudding.
Then I ate one o'clock and two o'clock.
Then I laughed and then we laughed
an let me take note -
there was a death,
the death of childhood
there at the Union Oyster House
for I was fifteen
and eating oysters
and the child was defeated.
The woman won.
- The Death of the Fathers: 1. Oysters, pg. 41
* * *
Angels of fire and genitals, do you know slime,
that green mama who first forced me to sing,
who put me first in the latrine, that pantomime
of brown where I was beggar and she was king?
I said, "The devil is down that festering hole."
Then he bit me in the buttocks and took over my soul.
Fire woman, you of the ancient flame, you
of the Bunsen burner, you of the candle,
you of the blast furnace, you of the barbecue,
you of the fierce solar energy, Mademoiselle,
take some ice, take some snow, take a month of rain
and you would gutter in the dark, cracking up your brain.
Mother of fire, let me stand at your devouring gate
as the sun dies in your arms and you loosen its terrible weight.
- Angels of the Love Affair: 1. 1. Angel of Fire and Genitals, pg. 57
* * *
It was the year
of the How To Sex Book,
the Sensuous Man and Woman were frolicking
but Jesus was fasting.
He ate His celibate life.
The ground shuddered like an ocean,
a great sexual swell under His feet.
His scrolls bit each other.
He was shrouded in gold like nausea.
Outdoors the kitties hung from their mother's tits
like sausages in a smokehouse.
Roosters cried all day, hammering for love.
Blood flowed from the kitchen pump
but He was fasting.
His sex was sewn onto Him like a medal
and His penis no longer arched with sorrow over Him.
He was fasting.
He was like a great house
with no people,
no plans.
- The Jesus Papers: Jesus Awake, pg. 94
* * *
In my dream
I milked a cow,
the terrible udder
like a great rubber lily
sweated in my fingers
and as I yanked,
waiting for the moon juice,
waiting for the white mother,
blood spurted from it
and covered me with shame.
Then God spoke to me and said:
People say only good things about Christmas.
If they want to say something bad,
they whisper.
So I went to the well and drew a baby
out of the hollow water.
Then God spoke to me and said:
Here. Take this gingerbread lady
and put her in your oven.
When the cow gives blood
and the Christ is born
we must all eat sacrifices.
We must all eat beautiful women.
- The Jesus Papers: The Author of the Jesus Papers Speaks, pg. 105
May 10, 2018
Sexton wrote many of these points at the height of her powers, but didn't fit the themes of Love Poems or Transformations, so they appear here. Before telling getting into the best and not so great poems, Sexton's ability to order poems so the flow set one another up is uncanny.
Her first the Ambition Bird taps her muse - why she writes. What was new (or at least the first time I picked up on something like this) here was the reference to popular music. Sexton had formed a band and so the singer song writers of the late sixties as the progression of poetry. The ambition bird wants to be dropped / from high place like Tallahatchie Bridge. The Tallahatchie bridge is not a high bridge and is rather unremarkable, but was made famous in 1967 by Bobbie Gentry's Ode to Billie Joe - that's bridge he jumps from and the first person narrator throws something off of.
The best poem in the book is Death of Fathers. The first two sections Oysters and How We Danced are the two best
Oysters we ate,
sweet blue babies,
twelve eyes looked up at me,
running with lemon and Tabasco.
I was afraid to eat this father-food
and Father laughed and
drank down his martini,
clear as tears.
It was a soft medicine
that came from the sea into my mouth,
moist and plump.
I swallowed.
It went down like a large pudding.
Then I ate one o'clock and two o'clock.
Then I laughed and then we laughed
and let me take note –
there was a death,
the death of childhood
there at the Union Oyster House
for I was fifteen
and eating oysters
and the child was defeated.
The woman won.
How We Danced
The night of my cousin's wedding
I wore blue.
I was nineteen
and we danced, Father, we orbited.
We moved like angels washing themselves.
We moved like two birds on fire.
Then we moved like the sea in a jar,
slower and slower.
The orchestra played
" Oh how we danced on the night we were wed. "
And you waltzed me like a lazy Susan
and we were dear,
very dear.
Now that you are laid out,
useless as a blind dog,
now that you no longer lurk,
the song rings in my head.
Pure oxygen was the champagne we drank
and clicked our glasses, one to one.
The champagne breathed like a skin diver
and the glasses were crystal and the bride
and groom gripped each other in sleep
like nineteen-thirty marathon dancers.
Mother was a belle and danced with twenty men.
You danced with me never saying a word.
Instead the serpent spoke as you held me close.
The serpent, that mocker, woke up and pressed against me
like a great god and we bent together
like two lonely swans.
The last section of the Death of Fathers - Begat - narrator her real life revelation at 40 that her father was not in fact her biological father.
I enjoyed out the Red Shoe and The Death of Spring setup the Death of Fathers
When it came to the Angels and Jesus Papers, Sexton was on shakier ground. Her theology is not her strength. The first several of each really didn't resonate. The last Angel poem and the the Jesus papers from Jesus Summons to the Author of the Jesus Paper speaks were ok.
The worse poem here is Firebombers. Sexton did take place in the peace movement of her day. What made her stand out is that she read her personal poems about her daughters and life at rallies instead of political poetry. Firebomers was a weak attempt to fire something off for the movement and that shows.
Her first the Ambition Bird taps her muse - why she writes. What was new (or at least the first time I picked up on something like this) here was the reference to popular music. Sexton had formed a band and so the singer song writers of the late sixties as the progression of poetry. The ambition bird wants to be dropped / from high place like Tallahatchie Bridge. The Tallahatchie bridge is not a high bridge and is rather unremarkable, but was made famous in 1967 by Bobbie Gentry's Ode to Billie Joe - that's bridge he jumps from and the first person narrator throws something off of.
The best poem in the book is Death of Fathers. The first two sections Oysters and How We Danced are the two best
Oysters we ate,
sweet blue babies,
twelve eyes looked up at me,
running with lemon and Tabasco.
I was afraid to eat this father-food
and Father laughed and
drank down his martini,
clear as tears.
It was a soft medicine
that came from the sea into my mouth,
moist and plump.
I swallowed.
It went down like a large pudding.
Then I ate one o'clock and two o'clock.
Then I laughed and then we laughed
and let me take note –
there was a death,
the death of childhood
there at the Union Oyster House
for I was fifteen
and eating oysters
and the child was defeated.
The woman won.
How We Danced
The night of my cousin's wedding
I wore blue.
I was nineteen
and we danced, Father, we orbited.
We moved like angels washing themselves.
We moved like two birds on fire.
Then we moved like the sea in a jar,
slower and slower.
The orchestra played
" Oh how we danced on the night we were wed. "
And you waltzed me like a lazy Susan
and we were dear,
very dear.
Now that you are laid out,
useless as a blind dog,
now that you no longer lurk,
the song rings in my head.
Pure oxygen was the champagne we drank
and clicked our glasses, one to one.
The champagne breathed like a skin diver
and the glasses were crystal and the bride
and groom gripped each other in sleep
like nineteen-thirty marathon dancers.
Mother was a belle and danced with twenty men.
You danced with me never saying a word.
Instead the serpent spoke as you held me close.
The serpent, that mocker, woke up and pressed against me
like a great god and we bent together
like two lonely swans.
The last section of the Death of Fathers - Begat - narrator her real life revelation at 40 that her father was not in fact her biological father.
I enjoyed out the Red Shoe and The Death of Spring setup the Death of Fathers
When it came to the Angels and Jesus Papers, Sexton was on shakier ground. Her theology is not her strength. The first several of each really didn't resonate. The last Angel poem and the the Jesus papers from Jesus Summons to the Author of the Jesus Paper speaks were ok.
The worse poem here is Firebombers. Sexton did take place in the peace movement of her day. What made her stand out is that she read her personal poems about her daughters and life at rallies instead of political poetry. Firebomers was a weak attempt to fire something off for the movement and that shows.
March 29, 2024
Surely the words will continue, for that's
what's left that's true.
Finished within the volume, Anne Sexton: The Complete Poems
Favorite poems: "The Ambition Bird," "Sweeney," and "The Death of the Fathers"
More abstract and less confessional than other Anne Sexton collections, The Book of Folly didn't connect with me in quite the same way. Form wise, she is doing more here that is experimental, conceptual and interesting, and perhaps requires further investigation and time then I have been willing to give the poems right now. I'll have to return to The Jesus Papers and the final section of the poem, certainly.
what's left that's true.
Finished within the volume, Anne Sexton: The Complete Poems
Favorite poems: "The Ambition Bird," "Sweeney," and "The Death of the Fathers"
More abstract and less confessional than other Anne Sexton collections, The Book of Folly didn't connect with me in quite the same way. Form wise, she is doing more here that is experimental, conceptual and interesting, and perhaps requires further investigation and time then I have been willing to give the poems right now. I'll have to return to The Jesus Papers and the final section of the poem, certainly.
February 4, 2019
This collection of mid-career poems doesn't really find its groove until Anne Sexton gets to the three serial sections entitled "The Death of the Fathers," "Angels of the Love Affair," and "The Jesus Papers" respectively. Only the poem "The Ambition Bird," which opens the book, manages to hit the same heights as these later groupings but once Sexton's caught fire, she keeps the flame burning bright and hot to the very end.
February 4, 2021
While beautiful for anyone, I urge everyone who has bipolar disorder to read Part I of this collection. I’ve yet to find a poet who describes the inner machinations of depression and mania at war with each other as well as Sexton. I’m particularly a fan of the poems ‘The Ambition Bird,’ ‘Killing the Spring,’ and ‘Angels of the Love Affair.’
5 stars for Part 1 (Thirty Poems)
3 stars for Part 2 (The Jesus Papers)
5 stars for Part 1 (Thirty Poems)
3 stars for Part 2 (The Jesus Papers)
February 6, 2022
Not my favourite book of her works. I find that with Sexton, I either really love her poems or really don't like them at all. There isn't much in between. There's a strong sequence towards the end, but otherwise I think there's quite a bit here that seems like it's trying too hard and although I have no idea when these were written and I might be doing her a massive disservice, some of these seem like they were perhaps inspired by Plath, but Plath did it better.
June 7, 2023
It may be a cheap shot to say this about a confessional poet, but Anne Sexton is too edgy for me. I don't read poetry for philosophy or for good stories. I read poetry for the feelings of spiteful middle-aged lesbians. I wish she didn't write so much crap about religion and politics. These themes should be beneath her. I liked the poems in which she talked about her disturbing, possibly sexual, experiences as a child. Maybe she is honest (I have no idea), but in the past, she wrote books that were honest and also good.
October 15, 2020
This was a more intense reading experience than I expected, having known nothing about the author beforehand; trauma pulses underneath everything in these pages, sometimes bubbling out viscerally.
“The silence is death.
It comes each day with its shock
To sit on my shoulder, a white bird,
And peck at the black eyes
And the vibrating red muscle
Of my mouth.”
“The silence is death.
It comes each day with its shock
To sit on my shoulder, a white bird,
And peck at the black eyes
And the vibrating red muscle
Of my mouth.”
April 17, 2024
Dalla ricerca del bandolo, la matassa personale percettiva di una biografia impersonata. Molto impressionato dalla capacità telegrafica della descrizione narrativa, proprio perché ammorbidita dall'emotività; quest'ultima non troppo generosamente offerta, anzi ipotecata sulla vanità dell'ascoltata. Narrazione suggestiva
October 2, 2020
This one is hard to rate because I liked about a third of the poems, and the rest I really didn’t get. But the ones I liked, I LOVED.
Highlights:
“Oh”
“The Wifebeater”
“The Firebombers”
“The One-Legged Man”
“Going Gone”
“Anna Who Was Mad”
“The Hex”
“The Other”
“The Hoarder”
“Killing the Spring”
Highlights:
“Oh”
“The Wifebeater”
“The Firebombers”
“The One-Legged Man”
“Going Gone”
“Anna Who Was Mad”
“The Hex”
“The Other”
“The Hoarder”
“Killing the Spring”
April 26, 2023
ugh. conflicted about this!
i really enjoyed the poems about womanhood and the first short story. the voice is so strong in this. but all the weird ones about her daughter & father & religion made me uncomfy
i really enjoyed the poems about womanhood and the first short story. the voice is so strong in this. but all the weird ones about her daughter & father & religion made me uncomfy
March 14, 2025
La Sexton mi ha trapiantato una spina nel petto. Schietta, tagliente, sferzante.
Ho adorato:
•Madre e figlia
•L'assassina
•Anna che era matta
•La maledizione
•Il doppio
•Il silenzio
•"Papà Natale", "Amici" e "Concepita" da "La morte dei padri".
Ho adorato:
•Madre e figlia
•L'assassina
•Anna che era matta
•La maledizione
•Il doppio
•Il silenzio
•"Papà Natale", "Amici" e "Concepita" da "La morte dei padri".
December 15, 2025
No había leído nada de Anne Sexton. Se suma a mis autoras pendientes💐
…
Me gustaría una vida simple,
pero durante toda la noche voy poniendo
lejos poemas en una caja larga.
Es mi caja de la inmortalidad,
mi plan para el después,
mi ataúd…
…
Me gustaría una vida simple,
pero durante toda la noche voy poniendo
lejos poemas en una caja larga.
Es mi caja de la inmortalidad,
mi plan para el después,
mi ataúd…
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