Anne Sexton


I am reading again. The often mundane exercise proves fruitful. This assumption of ripeness, of flower blossoms in winter and February fruit to be discussed elsewhere and later, keeps me hovering over her words.

Why I chose this, or any particular book, is beyond knowing. Or perhaps, since I had two copies of “Words for Dr. Y. Uncollected Poems by Anne Sexton.” edited by Linda Gray Sexton, her daughter, and while in the process of delivering unused things to be recycled at the transfer station, I noticed the red cover on top of the heap of books. It is a rather blatant clue. And a favorite book of poems.

I opened the pages eagerly and directly to page 33. She writes, “I begin to see. Today I am not all wood.” An imagined crackling fire roars behind me. It suits my mood. Her words, sparklers, ignited by an awakened spirit. No soul dulled by faulty wires would read those words with premonition. I declare, “I am a tree with budding leaves and spring rivers dancing at my feet, to quench my thirst.”

Still, just weeks ago, in my journal, I wrote, “Struggling. With my writing and my confidence. I have little ability to sit quietly, alone, with my thoughts and let them emerge. Form bubbles. Thought bubbles that I can sit inside and look around. Set up shop, gather my dictionary, thesaurus, pens, pencils…”

I will take what little I am given in direction and move forward. Jeanne

 

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