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November 10, 2006

Happy Birthday, Anne Sexton

November 9th is the birthday of my all-time favorite poet, ANNE SEXTON (1928-1974).

Sexton's Complete Poems is very likely the book of poetry I've read and re-read the most. When I was an undergrad in Kansas, I was in an extracurricular writing group with folks like Kellie Wells, Lisa Cosmillo, Wes Smith, and Gregg Morgan, and we all worshiped Sexton and gave readings of her work. I used to listen to the old Caedmon Records vinyl LP of Sexton reading her poems--she had this bourbony, nicotiney, seen-it-all voice, so strange and wise and lovely and awe-inspiring. I know I would have loved her if I'd known her personally. I've always imagined--from her voice, her poetry, and the stories in her biographies--that she was a lot like the two women in my life who shaped me the most as a person--one, my mother, and two, my late friend and writing teacher, Carolyn Doty.

Since moving to the new house this past June, I now have the honor of living about a mile away from gorgeous Forest Hills Cemetery, where Sexton is buried. I went there today to celebrate (see photos, above). The afternoon was unseasonably warm for November, with a little breeze blowing, and maroon and gold leaves scattering everywhere. I was utterly alone in this hushed, gigantic place. I was kind of hoping there would be flowers on her grave, thinking perhaps some other Sexton junkie would remember and show up, but no--for about fifteen minutes, under the sun sparkling through the leaves, it was just me and Anne beneath my feet. (e.e. cummings, by the way, is buried not far away in the same cemetery, but today I only had time to visit Anne.)

Besides the link already given above, there are other good informational sites (sometimes including poems) here; here; and here. Below: an Anne Sexton poem--not one of her most explosive or anthologized, but one of my personal favorites, and certainly one that seemed to fit today's mood in the cemetery.

THE SUN
(from Live or Die)

I have heard of fish
coming up for the sun
who stayed forever,
shoulder to shoulder,
avenues of fish that never got back,
all their proud spots and solitudes
sucked out of them.

I think of flies
who come from their foul caves
out into the arena.
They are transparent at first.
Then they are blue with copper wings.
Neither bird nor acrobat
they will dry out like small black shoes.

I am an identical being.
Diseased by the cold and the smell of the house
I undress under the burning magnifying glass.
My skin flattens out like sea water.
O yellow eye,
let me be sick with your heat,
let me be feverish and frowning.
Now I am utterly given.
I am your daughter, your sweet-meat,
your priest, your mouth and your bird
and I will tell them all stories of you
until I am laid away forever,
a thin gray banner.