Anne Sexton

Poems
The farmer's wife
The mixed stew
The lewdness of your field,
Your local life in Illinois,
Where all the acres seem
Fluorescent broom factories:
it has been ten years now
that she is your habit;
and again tonight
he will say let's go, sweetness

and she will not tell you how much more is needed
to live, how much more than this
brief luminous bridge
from the strident bed or still
more than your slow touches in Braille
like the weight of a heavy god turned light,
this old pantomime of love
what she wishes, although
this continues to leave her alone,
once again back to yourself,
the mind separated from his, living
herself with her own words
and hating the humidity of the house
what remains in them when they finally lie down
in separated dreams
and the way she looks at him
what is still strong in the ruby-red wrapping
of your usual sleep, while of it
the young years withered in the same way
double bed
and she desires him crippled or a poet,
or even more, lonely, or, sometimes,
better, my beloved: dead
The farmer’s wife
From the hodge porridge
of their country lust,
their local life in Illinois
where all their acres look
like a sprouting broom factory,
they will only name it in years now

that she has been his habit;

as again tonight he'll say
honey bunch let’s go
and she will not say how there
there must be more to living

than this brief bright bridge

of the raucous bed or even
the slow braille touch of him
like a heavy god grown light,
that old pantomime of love
that she wants although
it leaves her still alone,
built back again at last,
mind’s apart from him, living
her own self in her own words
and hating the sweat of the house
They keep when they finally lie.
each in separate dreams
and then how she watches him,
still strong in the blowzy bag
of his usual sleep while
her young years bungle past
their same marriage bed
and she wishes him crippled, or poet,
or even lonely, or sometimes,
better, my lover, dead.
– Anne Sexton, in "Anthology of New North American Poetry." [selection, translation, and notes by
Jorge Wanderley]. Rio de Janeiro: Civilização Brasileira, 1992.
In celebration of my womb
Everything in me is a bird.
Adejo with all my wings.
They wanted to remove you.
but they will not do it.

They said you were immeasurably empty.

but you are not.
They said you were sick and about to die.
but they were wrong.
You sing like a schoolgirl.
You are not undone.

Sweet weight,
in celebration of the woman I am
and of the soul of the woman that I am

and from the central creature and its pleasure

I sing for you. I dare to live.

Hello, spirit. Hello, cup.
Fix, cover. Cover what it contains.
Hello, land of the fields.
Welcome, roots.

Each cell has a life.

There are quite a few here to satisfy a nation.
Enough that the populace possesses these goods.
Any person, any group would say:
Everything is so good this year that we can plant again.
and think of another harvest.
A plague had been predicted and was eliminated.
That is why many women sing in unison:
a woman in a shoe factory cursing the machine,
a girl in the aquarium taking care of the seal,

a bored person behind the wheel of her FORD,

a toll collector,
a cowgirl in Arizona roping a calf,
a in Russia with one leg on each side of the cello,
a woman cooking pots on a stove in Egypt,
a painting the color of the moon on the walls of the room,

a woman on her deathbed but recalling a breakfast,

a woman in Thailand lying on the mat,
one cleaning the baby's bottom,
one looking out the train window,
in the middle of Wyoming and one is
anywhere and some are everywhere and all
they seem to be singing, although there are some who

cannot sing a single note.

Twelve pesos
in celebration of the woman I am
let me take a three meter scarf,
let me play the drum for those who are nineteen years old,
let me take cups to offer
(if that is what affects me).
let me study the cardiovascular tissue,
let me calculate the angular distance of the meteors,
let me suck the petiole of the flowers
(if that is what touches me).
Let me imitate certain tribal figures
(if this is what touches me).
Because the body needs this,
that you let me sing
for the dinner,
for the kiss,
for the correct
assertion.

In celebration of my uterus
Everyone in me is a bird.
I am beating all my wings.
They wanted to cut you out
but they will not.
They said you were immeasurably empty
but you are not.
They said you were sick unto dying
but they were wrong.
You are singing like a school girl.
You are not torn.

Sweet weight,
in celebration of the woman I am
and of the soul of the woman I am
and of the central creature and its delight
I sing for you. I dare to live.
Hello, spirit. Hello, cup.
Fasten, cover. Cover that does contain.
Hello to the soil of the fields.
Welcome, roots.

Each cell has a life.

There is enough here to please a nation.
It is enough that the populace own these goods.
Any person, any commonwealth would say of it,
It is good this year that we may plant again
and think forward to a harvest.
A blight had been forecast and has been cast out.
Many women are singing together about this:
one is in a shoe factory cursing the machine,
one is at the aquarium tending a seal,
one is dull at the wheel of her Ford,
one is at the toll gate collecting,
one is tying the cord of a calf in Arizona,
One is straddling a cello in Russia.
one is shifting pots on the stove in Egypt,
one is painting her bedroom walls moon color,
one is dying but remembering a breakfast,
one is stretching on her mat in Thailand,
one is wiping the ass of her child,
one is staring out the window of a train
in the middle of Wyoming and one is
anywhere and some are everywhere and all
seem to be singing, although some cannot
sing a note.

Sweet weight,
in celebration of the woman I am
let me carry a ten-foot scarf,
let me drum for the nineteen-year-olds,
let me carry bowls for the offering
(if that is my part).
Let me study the cardiovascular tissue,
let me examine the angular distance of meteors,
let me suck on the stems of flowers
(if that is my part).
Let me make certain tribal figures
(if that is my part).
For this thing the body needs
let me sing
for the supper,
for the kissing,
for the correct
yes.
-Anne Sexton [translation Jorge Sousa Braga*]. in: Unlimited Poetry, published on 21.8.2011.
Dreaming of breasts
Mother,
strange face of a goddess
about my milk house,
this delicate shelter,
I devoured you.
All my needs consumed you.
as if you were food.

What you gave me

I remember him in a dream:

the freckled arms wrapping around me,

the laughter somewhere over my wool hat,
the blood fingers tying my shoes,
the breasts suspended like two bats,
rushing down upon me,
until I bend.

Now the breasts I knew at midnight

they beat on me like the sea.
Mom filled her mouth with bees
to avoid eating
and that was not good for you.
They finally amputated your breasts.
and the milk was spilled
in the hands of the surgeon
and he embraced them
and I took them away
and I planted them.

I put a lock on you,

mother, dear dead human,
for your great bells,
those dear white ponies,
may they gallop, gallop,
wherever you are.

Dreaming the breasts

Mother,
strange goddess face
above my milk home,
that delicate asylum,
I ate you up.
All my need took
you are down like a meal.

What you gave

I remember in a dream:
the freckled arms binding me,
the laugh somewhere over my woolly hat,
the blood fingers tying my shoe,
the breasts hanging like two bats
and then darting at me,
bending me down.

The breasts I knew at midnight

beat like the sea in me now.
Mother, I put bees in my mouth
to keep from eating
yet it did no good.
In the end they cut off your breasts
and milk poured from them
into the surgeon’s hand
and he embraced them.
I took them from him
and planted them.

I have put a padlock

on you, Mother, dear dead human,
so that your great bells,
those dear white ponies,
can go galloping, galloping,
wherever you are.
–Anne Sexton [translation Jorge Sousa Braga*]. in: Unlimited Poetry, published on 21.8.2011.
Menstruation at forty
I was thinking about a child.

The belly is not a clock

not a bell that rings,
but in the eleventh month of his life
I feel November
of the body just like that of the calendar.
In two days it will be my birthday
And as always, the earth will have delivered its harvest.
In this time I seek death,
the night to which I lean,
the night I desire.
Well, then—
talk about him!

During all this time, it was in the womb.

I was thinking about a child...

You, or never achieved,

or never sown or untied,
you, oh of the genitals that I feared,
the tail and the breath of the dog.
Shall I give you my eyes or his?
Will it be you or David or Susana?
I heard these two names and elected them.
You can be just like the men in your family,
the leg muscles of Michelangelo,
hands originating from Yugoslavia,
in any place the peasant, Slavic and determined,
in any part the survivor, bursting with life—
could all this still be possible
with Susana's eyes?

All this without you—

two days that went by in blood.
I would die without being baptized,
the third daughter that they did not bother.
My death will come on the feast day of my name,
What is wrong with the feast day of my name?
It's just a sun angel.
Woman
that you weave a spider web over yourself,
a thin and tangled poison.
Scorpio,
my spider—
dies.

My death through the pulses,

two tags with my name,
blood used as a corset
to bloom,
one on the left and the other on the right:

it is a warm dwelling,
the place of blood.
Leave the door open on the hinges!

Two days until your death

and two days until mine.

Love! This crimson disease–

Year after year, David, you would make me furious!
David, Susana, David, David!
round and disheveled, whistling in the night,
without ever aging,
always waiting for you on the porch...
year after year,
my carrot, my cabbage,
having been possessed before all women,
calling by name,
calling you mine.
Menstruation at forty
I was thinking of a son.
The womb is not a clock
nor a bell tolling,
but in the eleventh month of its life
I feel the November
of the body as well as of the calendar.
In two days it will be my birthday.
and as always the earth is done with its harvest.
This time I hunt for death,
the night I lean toward,
the night I want.
Well then—
speak of it!
It was in the womb all along.

I was thinking of a son ...

You! The never acquired,
the never seeded or unfastened,
you of the genitals I feared,
the stalk and the puppy’s breath.
Will I give you my eyes or his?
Will you be the David or the Susan?
(Those two names I picked and listened for.)
Can you be the man your fathers are—
the leg muscles from Michelangelo,
hands from Yugoslavia
somewhere the peasant, Slavic and determined,
somewhere the survivor bulging with life—
and could it still be possible,
all this with Susan’s eyes?

All this without you—

two days gone in blood.
I myself will die without baptism,
a third daughter they didn’t bother.
My death will come on my name day.
What’s wrong with the name day?
It's only an angel of the sun.
Woman
weaving a web over your own,
a thin and tangled poison.
Scorpio,
bad spider
die!

My death from the wrists,

two name tags
blood worn like a corsage
to bloom
one on the left and one on the right—
It's a warm room,
the place of the blood.
Leave the door open on its hinges!

Two days for your death

and two days until mine.

Love! That red disease—

Year after year, David, you would make me wild!
David! Susan! David! David!
full and disheveled, hissing into the night,
never growing old
waiting always for you on the porch ...
year after year,
my carrot, my cabbage,
I would have possessed you before all women,
calling your name,
calling you mine.
–Anne Sexton [translation Jorge Sousa Braga*]. in: Unlimited Poetry, published on 21.8.2011.
A plague against elegies
Oh, my love, why do we argue like this?
I'm tired of your devoted talk.
And I am also tired of all the dead.
They refuse to listen,
so leave them in peace.
Take your foot off the cemetery,

they are busy being dead.

The blame was always on everyone:

the last empty bottle of liquor,
the rusty nails and chicken feathers
stuck in the mud on the step of the back door,
the worms that lived under the cat's ear
and the pastor with thin lips
who refused to show up
except for once on a flea-stricken sunny day
when he arrived dragging his feet through the garden
in search of a scapegoat.
I hid in the kitchen, under the bag of floor cloths.

I refuse to remember the dead.

And the dead are fed up with all of this.
But you—go ahead,
come on, continue,
enter the cemetery,
lie down where you think their faces are;
retrace your old nightmares as always.

A curse against elegies

Oh, love, why do we argue like this?
I am tired of all your pious talk.
Also, I am tired of all the dead.
They refuse to listen,
so leave them alone.
Take your foot out of the graveyard,
they are busy being dead.

Everyone was always to blame:

the last empty fifth of booze,
the rusty nails and chicken feathers
that stuck in the mud on the back doorstep,
the worms that lived under the cat’s ear
and the thin-lipped preacher
who refused to call
except once on a flea-ridden day
when he came scuffing in through the yard
looking for a scapegoat.
I hid in the kitchen under the ragbag.

I refuse to remember the dead.

And the dead are bored with the whole thing.
But you–you go ahead,
go on, go on back down
into the graveyard,
lie down where you think their faces are;
Talk back to your old bad dreams.
– Anne Sexton [translation by Renato Marques de Oliveira]. in "Anne Sexton and Poetry"
Confessional: anthology and commented translation
[s.n.], 2004.
Of the garden

Come, my beloved.
look at the lilies.
We have so little faith.
We talk too much.
Throw away your handful of words
and come with me to observe

the lilies opening in such a vast field,

there he rises like yachts,
gently guiding the petals
without nurses or watches.
Let us look at the landscape:

a house whose muddy halls

are adorned by white clouds.
Oh, throw away your words, the good ones
and the ruins. Spit
your words are like stones!
Come here! Come here!

Who eats my delicious fruits.

From the garden

Come, my beloved,
Consider the lilies.
We are of little faith.
We talk too much.
Put your mouthful of words away
and come with me to watch
the lilies open in such a field,
growing there like yachts,
slowly steering their petals
without nurses or clocks.
Let us consider the view:
a house where white clouds
decorate the muddy halls.
Oh, put away your good words
and your bad words. Spit out
your words like stones!
Come here! Come here!
Come eat my pleasant fruits.
–Anne Sexton [translation by Renato Marques de Oliveira]. in 'Anne Sexton and Poetry'
Confessional: anthologie and commented translation / Renato Marques de Oliveira. - Campinas, SP:
[s.n.], 2004.
The sun
I heard about fish
that came to light by the sun
and that they stayed there forever,
shoulder to shoulder,

avenues of fish that never returned,

sucked out of them

all the loneliness and vain stains.

I think of the flies

that come out of their filthy caves
inside the arena.
At the beginning, they are transparent.

So they become blue, with copper wings.

They shine on the foreheads of men.
Neither birds nor acrobats,
they will get burned like little black shoes.

I am an identical creature.
I suffer because of the cold and the smell of the house,
dispose of me under the burning magnifying glass.

My skin flattens like seawater.

Oh yellow eye,
that I fall ill with your warmth,
that I remain feverish and wrinkled.
Now I completely surrender myself.
I am your daughter, your sweet treat,

your father, your mouth and your bird

and I will tell everyone stories about you.

Until being buried forever,

a tattered gray pennant.

May 1962
The sun
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.

(May 1962)
– Anne Sexton [translation Renato Marques de Oliveira**]. in "Anne Sexton and Poetry"
Confessional: anthology and commented translation / Renato Marques de Oliveira. - Campinas, SP:
[s.n.], 2004.
In the company of angels
I was tired of being a woman,
lack of spoons and pots,
fart from my mouth and from my breasts,
farts of cosmetics and silks.
At my table there were still men,
around the bowl that I was offering.
The bowl was filled with purple grapes.
and the flies hovered because of the aroma
and even my father came with his white bone.
But I was tired of the genre of things.

Last night I had a dream

and said to him …
You are the answer,
You will live longer than my husband and my father.

In this dream, there was a city made of chains.

where Joana was put to death in men's clothing
and where the nature of angels could not be explained,
none of the same species,
one with a nose, another with an ear in hand,
chewing a star and recording its orbit,
each one like a poem that obeyed itself,
executing the functions of God,
a people apart.

You are the answer

I said, and I entered,
lying on the gates of the city.
So I was chained up
and I lost my common gender and my final aspect.
Adam was to my left
and Eva to my right,
both completely inconsistent with the world of reason.
We intertwined our arms
we gallop under the sun.
I was no longer a woman,
neither one nor the other.

Oh daughters of Jerusalem,
the king brought me to his chambers.
I am black and I am beautiful.

I was open and naked.

I have no arms or legs.
I am just one skin, like a fish.
I am so much of a woman

how much Christ was a man.

(February 1963)

Consorting with angels

I was tired of being a woman,
tired of the spoons and the post,
tired of my mouth and my breasts,
tired of the cosmetics and the silks.
There were still men who sat at my table,
circled around the bowl I offered up.
The bowl was filled with purple grapes
and the flies hovered in for the scent
and even my father came with his white bone.
But I was tired of the gender things.

Last night I had a dream

and I said to it...
You are the answer.
You will outlive my husband and my father.
In that dream there was a city made of chains
where Joan was put to death in man’s clothes
and the nature of the angels went unexplained,
no two made in the same species,
one with a nose, one with an ear in its hand,
one chewing a star and recording its orbit,
each one like a poem obeying itself,
performing God’s functions,
a people apart.

You are the answer,

I said, and entered,
lying down on the gates of the city.
Then the chains were fastened around me
and I lost my common gender and my final aspect.
Adam was on the left of me
and Eve was on the right of me,
both thoroughly inconsistent with the world of reason.
We wove our arms together
and rode under the sun.
I was not a woman anymore,
not one thing or the other.

O daughters of Jerusalem,
the king has brought me into his chamber.
I am black and I am beautiful.
I’ve been opened and undressed.
I have no arms or legs.
I'm all one skin like a fish.
I’m no longer a woman
than Christ was a man.

(February 1963)
– Anne Sexton [translated by Renato Marques de Oliveira]. in 'Anne Sexton and Poetry'
Confessional: anthology and commented translation / Renato Marques de Oliveira. - Campinas, SP:
[s.n.], 2004.
For the year of the fools
a prayer

Oh Mary, fragile little mother,

listen to me, listen to me now
even though I don't know your words.
The black rosary with the silver Christ
profane repose in my hand
because I am the incredulous one.

Each hard and round bead between my fingers

it's a little black angel.

Oh Mary, grant me this grace,

this crossing,
even though I am ugly,
immersed in my own past
and my own madness.
Although there are chairs,
I am lying on the floor.
Only my hands are alive,
settling the bills.
Word by word, stumble.
As a beginner still, I feel your mouth touch mine.

I count the bills like waves,

hammering on me.
I lose count, get discouraged by the number of them,

sick, sick from the summer heat

and the window above me
you are my only listener, my shy being.
She accepts everything, comforts me.
She is the one who gives breath,

he murmured,
gasping the wide lungs like a huge fish.
Closer and closer,
the hour of my death arrives
as I rearrange my face, I retreat,
After straightening, my hair becomes straight.

All of this is death.

In the mind, there is a narrow alley called death.
and I pass through there as if I were in water.
My body is useless.
I was stuck like a dog on the carpet.
Delivered the points.
There are no words other than those learned halfway,
O Mary, full of grace.
Now I started the year without words.
I note the strange entry and the exact voltage.
They exist without words.
Without words, one can touch the bread.
and receive the bread in my hands,

without any sound.

Oh Maria, kind doctor,

comes with powders and herbs,

because I am in the center.

It is very small and the air is grey,
like in a machine room
Pour me the wine as one gives milk to a child.
It is offered in a delicate chalice,
thick and with fine edges.
The wine itself is the color of pitch, must, and secret.

The chalice rises by itself towards my mouth

and I only realize and understand all of this

why it happens.

I'm afraid to cough.

but I don't speak,

fear of rain, fear of the knight

that gallops into my mouth.
The chalice spills by itself
and I am on fire.
I see two streams coming down, burning my chin.
I see myself as if I were another.
I was cut in half.

Oh Maria, open your eyelids.

I am in the realms of silence,
the kingdom of the mad and the sleepwalkers.
There is blood here

and I ate it.

Oh mother of the womb,

Are you just looking for blood?

Oh my little mother,

I am in my perfect judgment,
I am locked in the wrong house.

August 1963

For the year of the insane

a prayer

O Mary, fragile mother,

hear me, hear me now
although I do not know your words.
The black rosary with its silver Christ
lies unblessed in my hand
for I am the unbeliever.
Each bead is round and hard between my fingers.
a small black angel.
O Mary, permit me this grace,
this crossing over,
although I am ugly,
submerged in my own past
and my own madness.
Although there are chairs
I lie on the floor.
Only my hands are alive,
touching beads.
Word for word, I stumble.
A beginner, I feel your mouth touch mine.

I count beads as waves,

hammering in upon me.
I am ill at their numbers,
sick, sick in the summer heat
and the window above me
is my only listener, my awkward being.
She is a large taker, a soother.
The giver of breath
she murmurs,
exhaling her wide lung like an enormous fish.

Closer and closer

comes the hour of my death
as I rearrange my face, grow back,
grow undeveloped and straight-haired.
All this is death.
In the mind there is a thin alley called death
and I move through it as
through water.
My body is useless.
It lies, curled like a dog on the carpet.
It has given up.
There are no words here except the half-learned,
the Hail Mary and the full of grace.
Now I have entered the year without words.
I note the queer entrance and the exact voltage.
Without words they exist.
Without words on my touch bread
and be handed bread
and make no sound.

O Mary, tender physician,

come with powders and herbs
for I am in the center.
It is very small and the air is gray
as in a steam house.
I am handed wine as a child is handed milk.
It is presented in a delicate glass
with a round bowl and a thin lip.
The wine itself is pitch-colored, musty and secret.
The glass rises in its own toward my mouth
and I notice this and understand this
only because it has happened.

I have this fear of coughing

but I do not speak,
a fear of rain, a fear of the horseman
who comes riding into my mouth.
The glass tilts in on its own
and I am on fire.
I see two thin streaks burn down my chin.
I see myself as one would see another.
I have been cut into two.

O Mary, open your eyelids.

I am in the domain of silence,
the kingdom of the crazy and the sleeper.
There is blood here.
and I haven’t eaten it.
O mother of the womb,
Did I come for blood alone?
O little mother,
I am in my own mind.
I am locked in the wrong house.

August 1963
– Anne Sexton [translation by Renato Marques de Oliveira]. in "Anne Sexton and Poetry"
Confessional: anthology and commented translation / Renato Marques de Oliveira. - Campinas, SP:
[s.n.], 2004.
The starry night
This does not free me from feeling a terrible need.
I have to say the word—religion. Then I leave.
at night to paint the stars.
-VINCENT VAN GOGH, in: letter to his brother
The city does not exist
unless where a tree of black hair
she wriggles, like a drowned woman, toward the burning sky.
The city is silent. The night boils with eleven stars.
Oh starry night! It is like this
I want to die.

The night moves. They are all alive.

Even the moon, swollen in orange shackles
to, like a god, expel children from your eye.
The old invisible serpent devours the stars.
Oh starry night! It is like this
that I want to die:

within the furious beast of the night,

swallowed by the great dragon, spat out
of life without a flag,
without a belly,
without a scream.

The starry night

That does not keep me from having a terrible need of
–shall I say the word–religion.
Then I go out at night to paint the stars.
-VINCENT VAN GOGH, in: a letter to his brother
The town does not exist
except where one black-haired tree slips
up like a drowned woman into the hot sky.
The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars.
Oh starry night! This is how
I want to die.

It moves. They are all alive.

Even the moon bulges in its orange irons
to push children, like a god, from its eye.
The old unseen serpent swallows up the stars.
Oh starry starry night! This is how
I want to die.

into that rushing beast of the night,

sucked up by that great dragon, to split
from my life with no flag,
no belly
no cry.
– Anne Sexton [translation by Renato Marques de Oliveira**]. in 'Anne Sexton and Poetry'
Confessional: anthology and commented translation / Renato Marques de Oliveira. - Campinas, SP:
[s.n.], 2004.
I remember
At the beginning of August
the invisible beetles began
the snoring and the grass stayed

made from hemp and without

of course that
the sand has a color and
our bare feet were already
barefoot since twenty
of June and often
we forgot to wind it up
your alarm clock and some nights
we drank our gin hot and pure
in old jam jars while
the sun was disappearing from sight

made a red hat in a drawing and

One day I tied my hair back.
with a bow and you said that
I was almost looking like
a little puritan girl and what
I remember better that
the door to your room was
the door of my.

I remember
By the first of August
the invisible beetles began
to snore and the grass was
as tough as hemp and was
no color—no more than
the sand was a color and
we had worn our bare feet
bare since the twentieth
of June and there were times
we forgot to wind up your
alarm clock and some nights
we took our gin warm and neat
from old jelly glasses while
the sun blew out of sight
like a red picture hat and
One day I tied my hair back.
with a ribbon and you said
that I looked almost like
a puritan lady and what
What I remember best is that
the door to your room was
the door to mine.
– Anne Sexton [translation by Renato Marques de Oliveira]. in "Anne Sexton and Poetry"
Confessional: anthology and commented translation / Renato Marques de Oliveira. - Campinas, SP:
[s.n.], 2004.
Song of the moon, song of the woman
At night I am alive.
In the morning I am dead,
lamplighter that has already used all the oil,

gloomy and pale bones.

No miracle. No dazzle.

I am in terrible condition
but you are high in your war suit
and I must prepare your journey.
I was always a virgin,
old and bloated.
Before the world existed, I already existed.

I have been getting orange and fat,

carrot color, to amaze,
I let my cracked eyes drip into the sea
near Venice and Mombasa.
I rested about Maine.
I fell like a jet into the Pacific.
I committed perjury above Japan.
I balanced my pendulum,
my fat bag, my light
golden, golden,
twinkling
about all of you.

So, if you have to inquire, go ahead.

After all, I'm not artificial.
I have been observing you for a long time,

empty and with a belly full of love,

swinging my infinite screen
for you, you my icy man, icy
of the jumpsuit.
You just need to ask
and I do.
It is practically certain
that you will enter me like in a barracks.
So come crossing, come crossing,
you from the explosion,

you from Fortaleza,

you of the trick,
I will close my bulging eye,
the headquarters of an area,
the house of a dream.

Moon song, woman song

I am alive at night.
I am dead in the morning,
an old vessel who used up her oil,
bleak and pale boned.
No miracle. No dazzle.
I'm out of repair
but you are tall in your battle dress
and I must arrange for your journey.
I was always a virgin,
old and pitted.
Before the world was, I was.

I have been oranging and fat,

carrot colored, gaped at
allowed my cracked o’s to drop on the sea
near Venice and Mombasa.
I have rested over Maine.
I have fallen like a jet into the Pacific.
I have committed perjury over Japan.
I have dangled my pendulum,
my fat bag, gold, gold,
blinking light
over you all.

So if you must inquire, do so.

After all I am not artificial.
I looked long upon you,
love-bellied and empty,
flipping my endless display
for you, you my cold, cold
coverall man.
You only need to request
and I will grant it.
It is virtually guaranteed
that you will walk into me like a barracks.
So come cruising, come cruising,
you of the blast off,
you of the bastion,
you of the scheme.
I will shut my fat eye down.
headquarters of an area,
house of a dream.
– Anne Sexton [translation by Renato Marques de Oliveira]. in 'Anne Sexton and Poetry'
Confessional: anthoology and commented translation / Renato Marques de Oliveira. - Campinas, SP:
[s.n.], 2004.
The addict
Sleep mask,
Death's mask,
every night with capsules in the palm of my hands,
eight at a time, from beautiful pharmacy bottles,
I prepare a miniature journey.
I am the queen of this kind of thing.
I am an expert in traveling.
And now they say I'm an addict.
Now they ask me why.
The why!

They do not know

What I promised to die!

I am training.
I am just getting in shape.
Pills are like a mother, just better.
of all the colors and just as good as sour candy.
I am in a death regime.

Yes, I admit
that a little became routine—
eight punches at once, the swollen eye,
dragged by pink, orange good nights,
greens and whites.
I am becoming almost a mixture
chemistry.
That's it!

My stock
of the tablets
it has to last many years.
Stubborn as hell, they won't let me go.
It is a type of marriage.
It is a type of war
in which I am planting bombs inside
of me.

Yes,
this
to kill me little by little,
a futile occupation.
Actually, I'm obsessed.

But remember that I hardly make any noise.

And to be frank, no one needs to drag me along.
and I don't stay there wearing my shroud either.
I am a little flower in my yellow nightgown.
eating my eight breads, one at a time
and in a certain order, like in the

laying on of hands
during a black sacrament.

It is a ceremony.
but like any other sport
is filled with rules.
It's like a musical tennis game.
in which my mouth keeps catching the ball.
Then I lie down on my altar.
elevated by the eight chemical kisses.

And what rest it is

with two pink goodnights, two orange ones,
two greens, two whites.
Fee-fi-fo-fum—
Now I am taken.
Now I am numb.

February 1, 1966
The addict
Sleepmonger,
deathmonger,
with capsules in my palms each night,
eight at a time from sweet pharmaceutical bottles
I make arrangements for a pint-sized journey.
I’m the queen of this condition.
I’m an expert on making the trip
And now they say I’m an addict.
Now they ask why.
WHY!

Don't they know that I promised to die!

I’m keeping in practice.
I’m merely staying in shape.
The pills are a mother, but better.
every color and as good as sour balls.
I'm on a diet from death.

Yes, I admit
it has become a bit of a habit-
blows eight at a time, socked in the eye,
hauled away by the pink, the orange,
the green and the white goodnights.
I’m becoming something of a chemical
mixture.
that’s it!

My supply
of tablets
has got to last for years and years.
I like them more than I like myself.
It’s a kind of marriage.
It’s a kind of war where I plant bombs inside
of myself.
Yes
I try
to kill myself in small amounts,
an innocuous occupation.
Actually I’m hung up on it.
But remember I don’t make too much noise.
And frankly no one has to lug me out
and I don’t stand there in my winding sheet.
I'm a little buttercup in my yellow nightie
eating my eight loaves in a row
and in a certain order as in
the laying on of hands
or the black sacrament.

It's a ceremony
but like any other sport
it's full of rules.
It’s like a musical tennis match where
my mouth keeps catching the ball.
Then I lie on my altar
elevated by the eight chemical kisses.

What a lay me down this is

with two pink, two orange,
two green, two white goodnights.
Fee-fi-fo-fum-
Now I'm borrowed.
Now I’m numb.

first of February 1966

– Anne Sexton [translation Renato Marques de Oliveira**]. in "Anne Sexton and Poetry"
Confessional: annotated anthology and translation / Renato Marques de Oliveira. - Campinas, SP:
[s.n.], 2004.
The kiss
My mouth aches like a cut.
I was deceived all year, nights
out of boredom, nothing but rough elbows
the delicate Kleenex boxes screaming crybaby,
chorona, bobona!

Until today my body was useless.

Now your corners want to tear apart.
He tears Maria's old dresses, knot by knot.
And look—Now it is charged with electric rays.
Zing! A resurrection!

Once there was a ship, very rigid

and shipwrecked, was unaware of saltwater
and needed painting. It didn't go through
from a pile of boards. But you raised it, you equipped it.
She was elected.

My nerves are excited. I can hear them like

musical instruments. Where there was silence
The drums, the strings, play irreparably. You did this.
Pure genius in action. Dear, the composer
stepped on the fire.

The kiss
My mouth blooms like a cut.
I’ve been wronged all year, tedious
nights, nothing but rough elbows in them
and delicate boxes of Kleenex calling crybaby
crybaby, you fool!

Before today my body was useless.

Now it’s tearing at its square corners.
It’s tearing old Mary’s garments off knot by knot
and see— Now it’s shot full of these electric bolts.
Zing! A resurrection!

Once it was a boat, quite wooden

and with no business, no salt water under it
and in need of some paint. It was no more
than a group of boards. But you hoisted her, rigged her.
She’s been elected.

My nerves are turned on. I hear them like

musical instruments. Where there was silence
the drums, the strings are incurably playing. You did this.
Pure genius at work. Darling, the composer has stepped
into fire.
–Anne Sexton [translation Renato Marques de Oliveira**]. in "Anne Sexton and Poetry
Confessional: antholog y and commented translation
[s.n.], 2004.
Just once
I only knew once what life was for.
In Boston, all of a sudden, I understood;
I was walking along the Charles River,
watching the lights copying themselves,
all in neon, stroboscopic hearts,
the mouths as wide open as those of opera singers;
I counted the stars, my little supporters,
my scar daisies, and I knew it carried my love
on the green night side and called my heart
for the cars heading east and my heart was calling
for the cars heading west and I took
my truth is I crossed a little hunchbacked bridge
and I ran quickly with my truth, its charm, home
I stacked these constants all morning long
just to lose them all.

Just once
Just once I knew what life was for.
In Boston, quite suddenly, I understood;
walked there along the Charles River,
watched the lights copying themselves,
but neon-lit and strobe-hearted, opening
their mouths as wide as opera singers;
counted the stars, my little campaigners,
my scar daisies, and knew that I walked my love
on the night green side of it and cried
my heart to the eastbound cars and cried
my heart to the westbound cars and took
my truth across a small humped bridge
and hurried my truth, the charm of it, home
and hoarded these constants into mourning
only to find them gone.
- Anne Sexton [translation by Renato Marques de Oliveira**]. in 'Anne Sexton and Poetry'
Confessional: anthology and commented translation
[s.n.], 2004.
A thematic continuity in your work is recurrent, especially due to its inscription in
American confessional poetry, in which supposedly biographical elements are
we confuse it with fictional elaborations. Thus, we can speak of a poetic persona of
Sexton in her poems, and, in this performance of herself, the relationship between mother and daughter is a subject
frequent, present since his first book, To Bedlam and Part Way Back (1960), in 'The
"Double Image." According to Anne Sexton's biography by Diane Middlebrook, when she
I made public readings of this poem, which recounts the relationship between three generations (the daughter of the persona
poetic, herself and her mother), she used to say: "the great theme is not that of Romeo and
Julieta. The great theme that we all share is becoming who we are,
to surpass our father and our mother, to assume our identity in some way
(my translation).
Thus, two poems from The Book of Folly (1972) are particularly revisited here,
"Dreaming the Breasts" and "The Author of the Jesus Papers Speaks", developing this theme
familiar, with an image reverberation that seems to be in the text of 1974 and published in
1975. The second poem, in particular, does not explicitly speak of the maternal relationship, but it
reference to milk and food establishes another interpretation for the other texts.
Written in free verse, the aim is to recreate its rhythm and internal sound play in the translation.
even if slightly altering the meaning of the sentences, so that the poetic effect is not lost.
Considering the rhythm, the goal is to maintain the same amount of strong syllables within each
verse, even if the translation results in a larger size, to try to reconcile the shorter length of the words
in English regarding its possible translations into Portuguese and, thus, preserve the content
of the poem as much as possible.

Beatriz Regina Guimarães Barboza

DREAMING THE BREASTS
Mother,
strange goddess face
above my milk home,
that delicate asylum,
I ate you up.
All my need took
you down like a meal.
What you gave
I remember in a dream:
the freckled arms binding me,
the laugh somewhere over my woolly hat,
the blood fingers tying my shoe,
the breasts hanging like two bats
and then darting at me,
bending me down.
The breasts I knew at midnight
beat like the sea in me now.
Mother, I put bees in my mouth
to keep from eating
yet it did no good.
In the end they cut off your breasts
and milk poured from them
into the surgeon's hand
and he embraced them.
I took them from him
and planted them.
I have put a padlock
on you, Mother, dear dead human,
so that your great bells,
those dear white ponies,
can go galloping, galloping,
wherever you are.
DREAMING OF THE BREASTS

Mother,
strange divine face
about my milky home,
that delicate asylum,
I ate you all up.
All my lack of you
I swallowed it like a dish.

What did you offer

I remember in a dream:
the freckled arms embracing me,
the laughter somewhere over my wool hat,
the blood fingers tying my shoe,
the breasts hanging like two bats
and then hitting me like this,
bending me.

The breasts I knew at midnight

they act like the sea in me now.
Mom, I put bees in my mouth
to stop me from eating
but that was of no use.
In the end, they cut off her breasts.
and the milk spilled from them
in the hands of the surgeon
and he hugged them.
I took them from him
and I planted them.

I put a lock
to you, Mother, dear dead human,
for your great bells,
those dear white ponies,
keep galloping, galloping,
wherever you are.
THE AUTHOR OF THE JESUS PAPERS SPEAKS
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 AUTHOR OF JESUS' PAPERS SPEAKS OUT

In my dream,
I ordered a cow,
the terrible teat
large latex lily
sounding in my fingers
and with my pull,
waiting for the lunar juice,
waiting for the pale mother,
blood gushed from her
and covered me with shame.
Then God spoke to me and said:
People only say good things about Christmas.
If they want to say something bad,
they whisper.
So I went to the well and brought a baby
from the bottom of the water.
Then God spoke to me and said:
Here. Take this gingerbread girl.
and put it in your oven.
When the cow gives blood
and Christ is born
we have to eat sacrifices.
We have to eat beautiful women.
MOTHERS
for J. B.
Oh mother,
here in your lap,
as good as a bowlful of clouds,
I your greedy child
I am given your breast,
the sea wrapped in skin,
and your arms,
roots covered with moss
and with new shoots sticking out
to tickle the laugh out of me.
Yes, I am wedded to my teddy
but he has the smell of you
as well as the smell of me.
Your necklace that I touch
is all angel eyes.
Your rings that sparkle
are like the moon on the pond.
Your legs bounce me up and down,
your dear nylon-covered legs,
are the horses I will ride
into eternity.
Oh mother,
after this lap of childhood
I will never go forth
into the big people's world
as an alien,
a fabrication
or falter
when someone else
is empty as a shoe.
MOTHERS
for J. B.

Oh mother,
here in your lap,
as good as a gourd of clouds,
you, your greedy child,
I receive your breast,
the sea wrapped in skin,
and his arms,
roots covered in moss
and with new buds emerging
making me laugh with tickles.
Yes, I am engaged to my teddy bear
but it has the same smell as yours
just like my scent.
I grab your necklace with my fingers
what is all angel's eyes.
Your rings that shimmer
they are like the moon in the lagoon.

Your legs swing me up and down,

your dear legs covered in nylon,
these are the horses I will ride
to eternity.

Oh mother,
after this childhood lap
I will never be able to go out again

to the world of big people

like a stranger,
something invented,
or wavering
when someone else
it's as empty as a shoe.

Beatriz Regina Guimarães Barboza is a master's student in the Graduate Program in

Translation Studies at the Federal University of Santa Catarina, having as a project of
The Awful Rowing Toward God
(1975). He graduated in Literary Studies from the State University of Campinas, completing
the course with a commented translation monograph of the booklet 'The Book of Repulsive'
"Women" (1915) by Djuna Barnes. It is part of the Feminist Studies Group in Literature.
in Translation (GEFLiT) at the Federal University of Santa Catarina and seeks to both translate
how to write reviews about the latest publications at the intersection of studies of
translation and gender studies. In addition, it also writes poetry ("Emptied Rooms",
2015, ed. Urutau) and short stories.