Anne Sexton
            
            
             Anne Sexton was the poet I chose to write about. She was born in Newton, Massachusetts in 1928, she committed suicide after several mental brake downs at the age of 46. She held many different jobs, she was a librarian, fashion model, and taught English at Colleges and Universities. She was rewarded with Bread Loaf Fellowship in 1959, Fellowship from American Academy of Arts and Sciences in 1963. Also the Ford Foundation Grant in 1964, and the Pulitzer Prize and Guggenheim Fellowship in 1969. Her poetry looks at her life appeal directly to emotions. Anne Sexton was a very good poet and she has very interesting work.
            
             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, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
             A women like that is not a women, 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 women 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 routs, survivor
             Where your flames still bite my thigh
             And my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
             A women like that is not ashamed to die,
             I have been her kind.
             Said the Poet to the Analyst
             My business is words, Words are like labels,
             Or coins or better, like swarming bees.
             I confess I am only broken by the source of things;
             As if words were counted like dead bees in the attic,
             Unbuckled from their yellow eyes and their dry wings.
             I must always forget how one word is able to pick
             Out another, to manner another, until I have got
             Something I might have said...
             But did not.
            
             Your business is watch9ing my words. But I
             Admit nothing. I work with my best,...