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The Fury of Cocks

Love this poem. Love Anne Sexton's work.

Offsite Link
by Anonymousreply 13August 14, 2018 3:21 PM

eh, go stick your head in an oven.

by Anonymousreply 1September 30, 2014 2:45 AM

Piss off R1!

by Anonymousreply 2September 30, 2014 3:13 AM

Mcsguvgfgmnbgfc.

by Anonymousreply 3September 30, 2014 3:41 AM

No poetry fans here

by Anonymousreply 4September 30, 2014 3:43 PM

I liked it lots.

Love that crazy lady.

by Anonymousreply 5September 30, 2014 3:50 PM

I love Anne's poetry.

Hard to reconcile her mess of a life and the alleged child sexual abuse with the magnificent art. But her poetry got me through some bad times in college.

by Anonymousreply 6September 30, 2014 5:02 PM

[quote]All the cocks of the world are God,

I believe that.

by Anonymousreply 7September 30, 2014 5:08 PM

I love this poem!

I did love Sexton's work though R6 nails it.

by Anonymousreply 8August 13, 2018 10:25 PM

She is wonderful, and was a complete natural. Her language was both colloquial and poetic, and she did that better than almost anyone IMO. And she recites poetry better than any other poet I’ve heard; not even late Plath, who was a great reader, was as good.

by Anonymousreply 9August 13, 2018 10:38 PM

I was molested.

by Anonymousreply 10August 14, 2018 2:03 AM

Hey, get your own stroll, Toots.

by Anonymousreply 11August 14, 2018 2:04 AM

Here's the poem, since of course the 4-year-old link no longer works

The Fury Of Cocks

There they are

drooping over the breakfast plates,

angel-like,

folding in their sad wing,

animal sad,

and only the night before

there they were

playing the banjo.

Once more the day's light comes

with its immense sun,

its mother trucks,

its engines of amputation.

Whereas last night

the cock knew its way home,

as stiff as a hammer,

battering in with all

its awful power.

That theater.

Today it is tender,

a small bird,

as soft as a baby's hand. She is the house.

He is the steeple.

When they fuck they are God.

When they break away they are God.

When they snore they are God.

In the morning they butter the toast.

They don't say much.

They are still God.

All the cocks of the world are God,

blooming, blooming, blooming

into the sweet blood of woman.

by Anonymousreply 12August 14, 2018 2:09 AM

A great reading by Sexton at this site. Look where her name is at the top and click for the drop down menu, you'll see a list of titles to click on if you want to hear the reading.

"The fury of cocks.....not to be confused with roosters!"

Offsite Link
by Anonymousreply 13August 14, 2018 3:21 PM
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