Close Reading the Poetry of Anne Sexton - January 2025
Join us for two intensive sessions studying the poetry of Anne Sexton through close reading. Led by Mariah Whelan.
Wednesdays, 15 January and 22 January 2025
14.00-16.00 British Time (Greenwich Mean Time)
15.00-17.00 Central European Time
Morning in the Americas
Please check the time for your time zone.
Course fees
£84.00 full price
£78.00 students
£78.00 CAMcard holders
The Room of My Life
by Anne Sexton
Here,
in the room of my life
the objects keep changing.
Ashtrays to cry into,
the suffering brother of the wood walls,
the forty-eight keys of the typewriter
each an eyeball that is never shut,
the books, each a contestant in a beauty contest,
the black chair, a dog coffin made of Naugahyde,
the sockets on the wall
waiting like a cave of bees,
the gold rug
a conversation of heels and toes,
the fireplace
a knife waiting for someone to pick it up,
the sofa, exhausted with the exertion of a whore,
the phone
two flowers taking root in its crotch,
the doors
opening and closing like sea clams,
the lights
poking at me,
lighting up both the soil and the laugh.
The windows,
the starving windows
that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
Each day I feed the world out there
although birds explode
right and left.
I feed the world in here too,
offering the desk puppy biscuits.
However, nothing is just what it seems to be.
My objects dream and wear new costumes,
compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands
and the sea that bangs in my throat.
______________
Source: Poetry Foundation website.
Join us for two intensive sessions studying the poetry of Anne Sexton through close reading. Led by Mariah Whelan.
Wednesdays, 15 January and 22 January 2025
14.00-16.00 British Time (Greenwich Mean Time)
15.00-17.00 Central European Time
Morning in the Americas
Please check the time for your time zone.
Course fees
£84.00 full price
£78.00 students
£78.00 CAMcard holders
The Room of My Life
by Anne Sexton
Here,
in the room of my life
the objects keep changing.
Ashtrays to cry into,
the suffering brother of the wood walls,
the forty-eight keys of the typewriter
each an eyeball that is never shut,
the books, each a contestant in a beauty contest,
the black chair, a dog coffin made of Naugahyde,
the sockets on the wall
waiting like a cave of bees,
the gold rug
a conversation of heels and toes,
the fireplace
a knife waiting for someone to pick it up,
the sofa, exhausted with the exertion of a whore,
the phone
two flowers taking root in its crotch,
the doors
opening and closing like sea clams,
the lights
poking at me,
lighting up both the soil and the laugh.
The windows,
the starving windows
that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
Each day I feed the world out there
although birds explode
right and left.
I feed the world in here too,
offering the desk puppy biscuits.
However, nothing is just what it seems to be.
My objects dream and wear new costumes,
compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands
and the sea that bangs in my throat.
______________
Source: Poetry Foundation website.
Join us for two intensive sessions studying the poetry of Anne Sexton through close reading. Led by Mariah Whelan.
Wednesdays, 15 January and 22 January 2025
14.00-16.00 British Time (Greenwich Mean Time)
15.00-17.00 Central European Time
Morning in the Americas
Please check the time for your time zone.
Course fees
£84.00 full price
£78.00 students
£78.00 CAMcard holders
The Room of My Life
by Anne Sexton
Here,
in the room of my life
the objects keep changing.
Ashtrays to cry into,
the suffering brother of the wood walls,
the forty-eight keys of the typewriter
each an eyeball that is never shut,
the books, each a contestant in a beauty contest,
the black chair, a dog coffin made of Naugahyde,
the sockets on the wall
waiting like a cave of bees,
the gold rug
a conversation of heels and toes,
the fireplace
a knife waiting for someone to pick it up,
the sofa, exhausted with the exertion of a whore,
the phone
two flowers taking root in its crotch,
the doors
opening and closing like sea clams,
the lights
poking at me,
lighting up both the soil and the laugh.
The windows,
the starving windows
that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
Each day I feed the world out there
although birds explode
right and left.
I feed the world in here too,
offering the desk puppy biscuits.
However, nothing is just what it seems to be.
My objects dream and wear new costumes,
compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands
and the sea that bangs in my throat.
______________
Source: Poetry Foundation website.