Technically excellent poems, between fears and anxieties
Dynasty Models and Actors http://www.dynastymodels.com/ work with advertising agencies, directors and photographers for print. Its models are among the top on national and international campaigns. There was a time when in Boston had appeared (like a comet into the town), a strange model. She was a female poet, Anne Sexton. Entering into Brattle Book Shop http://www.brattlebookshop.com/ you can will buy one of her poembooks. In England, his poems were so famous that they were published as a selection of poems in the Poetry Book Selection. Daughter of an alcoholic industrialist and a mother with literary aspirations, she grew up in the middle-class environment of Massachusetts, but was never comfortable with that kind of life. Born in Newton on a November 1928 day, Anne Sexton http://braungardt.trialectics.com/tag/sexton/ became an extraordinary writer and poet.
During her adolescence, Anne Sexton https://openlibrary.org/authors/OL686634A/Anne_Sexton found refuge from the unwelcoming family in a young great aunt who lived with the family. Disobedient and unable to concentrate, he showed strong aversion to school. She was enrolled in a professional school, but after only one year, she fled, getting married. In Boston, she worked as a model, but after the birth of her daughter, she enrolled in a poetry workshop for adults. Writing about abortion, masturbation and adultery, she helped open the doors to poets and the recognition of women’s rights. Beginning in 1957, Anne Sexton https://www.fembio.org/english/biography.php/woman/biography/anne-sexton/ met numerous writers (Robert Lowell and Sylvia Plath), and her poetry became a central part of her life. Like other confessional poets, she convinced her readers that the poems were a reflection of her life. In 1967, he received the Pulitzer Prize for poetry. Her reputation peaked with the publication of Love Poems, where his style became less confessional, more socially aware. Divorced, alcoholism and depression accompanied her long loneliness until one day in October 1974, when she let herself die by inhaling carbon monoxide.
MORE THAN MYSELF – Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there; something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind, in the commonplaces of the asylum where the cracked mirror or my own selfish death outstared me. I tapped my own head; it was glass, an inverted bowl. It’s small thing to rage inside your own bowl. At first, it was private. Then it was more than myself.
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