The Fury of Hating Eyes – Anne Sexton

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I would like to bury
all the hating eyes
under the sand somewhere off
the North Atlantic and suffocate
them with the awful sand
and put all their colors to sleep
in that soft smother.
Take the brown eyes of my father,
those gun shots, those mean muds.
Bury them.
Take the blue eyes of my mother,
naked as the sea,
waiting to pull you down
where there is no air, no God.
Bury them.
Take the black eyes of my love,
coal eyes like a cruel hog,
wanting to whip you and laugh.
Bury them.
Take the hating eyes of martyrs,
presidents, bus collectors,
bank managers, soldiers.
Bury them.
Take my eyes, half blind
and falling into the air.
Bury them.
Take your eyes.
I come to the center,
where a shark looks up at death
and thinks of my heart
and squeeze it like a doughnut.
They’d like to take my eyes
and poke a hatpin through
their pupils. Not just to bury
but to stab. As for your eyes,
I fold up in front of them
in a baby ball and you send
them to the State Asylum.
Look! Look! Both those
mice are watching you
from behind the kind bars.

Diminished is My Way

I could exhaust many a thing

the stinging, pelts of rain

the ferreted holes to the world below

strident waters, black and deeper than thought

matter deliberately flung to the ground

yet, cannot be sought.barren tree

Diminished is my way when I am not free to walk.

In transient, stillness down a one way path, I find myself unable to look back.

I could exhaust many a thing

never to repeat all that is scattered behind me.

Ordinary Still-Life

Grizzled houses desperate in need for a weary, traveler’s feet.

Hanging to chasms of rubbish buried with half burned tin cans…

the cleavage of crippled, front doors

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Bygone…ordinary, tarnished, steel coat pegs.

and

forgotten ice skates

and the one cent stamp.

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A room.

A community not centered.

A destination of ordinary.

A place of my own…

A house kept in my withering hands…with a body in similar repose.

Dust in day by day.

Secretly I will drive it away.

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Stepford Strangers

Belly to the bar

this is the place i could go

dancing in destiny’s afterglow

in a forest of folk and lore

cardboard sayings for a cure

no race to be won in the land of papered, big, book, restraint

in this dance life strolls with a limp

sobering how i get around…when drink is down

iron seats bequeathing intimate strangers

all making calls…24 hours a day…to other confidential visitors

each of us with our own bumper sticker philosophy

Dame Nature

Modest and without presumptions, pursue nature with truth.

In the lush scenery step as though, progress is not a need.

Tread with the style in which…Dame Nature deems courtly

Picket fences no longer impede progress. no more than wilted, emerald…

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