Resultado da Busca
Sexton makes this a very personal poem for her reader by using inclusive personal pronouns such as “we” and “you.”. The poem is unrhymed and written in free verse; each of the four stanzas contains twelve lines of varying lengths. The poem opens with a declarative sentence: “It is in the small things we see it.”.
Anne Sexton's poetry is a testament to the power of art in capturing the complexities of human emotions, particularly depression. Through her confessional style and unfiltered exploration of her own struggles, she invites readers into her world, shedding light on the often misunderstood experience of mental illness.
She married Alfred Sexton in 1948. Experiencing severe depression after her daughters were born in 1953 and 1955, she attempted suicide in 1956. Her doctor recommended writing poetry as an outlet for her feelings, and she attended Boston poetry workshops run by John Holmes and Robert Lowell. To Bedlam and Part Way Back (1960), her first book ...
Structure and Form. ‘45 Mercy Street’ by Anne Sexton is a poem structured in free verse, characterized by its lack of a consistent rhyming scheme or meter. This absence of a formal structure mirrors the chaotic and fragmented emotions of the speaker. The poem’s structure is organic, mirroring the speaker’s inner turmoil, fragmented ...
Anne Sexton is remembered as a pivotal figure in the confessional poetry movement that emerged in the mid-20th century. Her work, characterized by its stark honesty and unflinching exploration of personal struggles, continues to resonate with readers today for its raw vulnerability and unflinching examination of themes like mental illness, sexuality, and the complexities of womanhood.
By Anne Sexton. Since you ask, most days I cannot remember. I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage. Then the almost unnameable lust returns. Even then I have nothing against life. I know well the grass blades you mention, the furniture you have placed under the sun. But suicides have a special language.
28 de mar. de 2017 · da noite deitada na relva, com os trevos a enrugarem-se por cima de mim. as estrelas sábias deitadas sobre mim, a janela da minha mãe um funil. de calor amarelo a escorrer. a janela do meu pai, meia fechada, um olho onde adormecidos passavam, e as tábuas da casa. eram macias e brancas como a cera.
