The Black Art

By: Anne Sexton

A woman who writes feels too much,
those trances and portents!
As if cycles and children and islands
weren't enough; as if mourners and gossips
and vegetables were never enough.
She thinks she can warn the stars.
A writer is essentially a spy.
Dear love, I am that girl.

A man who writes knows too much,
such spells and fetiches!
As if erections and congresses and products
weren't enough; as if machines and galleons
and wars were never enough.
With used furniture he makes a tree.
A writer is essentially a crook.
Dear love, you are that man.

Never loving ourselves,
hating even our shoes and our hats,
we love each other, precious, precious.
Our hands are light blue and gentle.
Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
But when we marry,
the children leave in disgust.
There is too much food and no one left over
to eat up all the weird abundance.

---

Anne Sexton was a remarkable poet whose work often felt like a raw, intimate diary entry filled with the complexities of her mind and emotions. Born in 1928 in Massachusetts, she initially led a life that seemed outwardly traditional—marriage, children, and a suburban home.

But beneath the surface, she struggled with mental illness, and poetry became her salvation. Encouraged by her therapist to write, Sexton turned her pain into art, producing deeply confessional poems that explored themes of depression, death, and even the roles of women in society.

Her writing earned her critical acclaim, including the Pulitzer Prize in 1967 for her collection Live or Die, yet her personal battles never ceased. Tragically, Sexton's life ended by her own hand in 1974, leaving behind a body of work that continues to resonate with anyone who has ever wrestled with their own demons. Despite the darkness of her themes, there is a fierce honesty and vulnerability in Sexton’s poetry that invites readers into her world and leaves a lasting impression.