Anne Sexton was born on this day in 1928, and I had to write a post, however brief it may be, to celebrate her birthday.  I’ve been drawn to her work for a very long time — to her courage, her power, her ability to shred through any shred of shame and speak, and speak, and speak, no matter the subject, the taboo, the person telling her not to speak, the prevailing sense of propriety, or the fear she must have often felt (though, perhaps, I comfort myself by telling myself that she must have often felt fear).  Though there are certainly parts of Sexton’s biography which bother and disturb me, so much so that, months after purchasing Middlebrook’s biography, I still haven’t brought myself to read it, there is still her work — and her voice.  It’s through Sexton’s work that I first gained an understanding of the concept of “voice,” and also the pure power of the poetic voice to enrapture, bewitch, and draw in an audience, to make them hear even if what was being said wasn’t pleasant — and even if the far-less-than-pleasant thing being said was, at the same time, essential to hear — and therefore difficult to hear.  It’s only now that I’ve also begun to appreciate her craft, how skillfully she measures her words and how beautifully she beads them together even when taking on the most disturbing subject matter.

The Poetry Foundation’s page on Sexton is excellent.  I’m posting one of Sexton’s poems here (check out a recording of her reading it here – hearing Sexton’s voice is not to be missed), one which is one of my favorites if only because of its power, and of its power to empower women who otherwise may not be able to find a voice.

Her Kind

I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.

I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.