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.
11 thoughts on “The Black Art by Anne Saxton”
This was beautiful, Tanya! Wonderful poignant verses 🙂
Thanks for stopping by Tom, great verses by Anne Saxton. Your stories are fabulous too, I gotta read more but lately arm is giving me trouble 👿 getting old may be 🙂
I agree dear Tanya. When the madness of writing steal our mind and soul. We can forget everything else. I loved the honesty in the words dear poet.
Thanks for stopping by John, writing is actually a frenzy it completely takes over.
I agree dear Tanya and you are welcome.
Good one. Women bring waves to poetry, men just surrender their calamities to poetry.
Thanks Nishabad, really powerful words by Anne Saxton..she remains a great feminist poet!
Ohh. You are introducing me to many interesting writers
I’m glad could do that 🙂
And refer our offline conversation. Have wrote poetry of sorts
A great poem, Tanya. I love this line… Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.