All My Pretty Ones

There are few people who can look at the world and see consistently either a dark paradise of pleasure, pain and perdition, or a sub-Eden of endless wonders and gratitude. It is hard to find such persons because the world in fact exists in both realms, the light and the dark. The inherent beauty of life and order and prosperity is conjoined to its bastard twin, the seemingly endless cycle of suffering, death and calamity. If one could surgically separate these two halves of the world, the aura, the spiritual connection left between them would be the poetry of Anne Sexton. Her poetry is careful to never appear too cheerful, yet it can never fully condemn the heart's need for gladness. There seems to be a desperate loathing for hope in her writing, yet the writing itself becomes redemption. Just as the separation of twins joined by birth cannot undo that certain duality unknown by those born alone, Anne Sexton seems to carefully choose which way to shift her weight as she sits on the fence. The two-faced reality of living is a difficult burden for any of us to bear, but what drives us toward our conclusions is often unclear. This, of course, is what we have poets for. These lines from "With Mercy For The Greedy" define, at least for Sexton, the only ointment for the injuries of the world. "This is what poems are: With mercy For the greedy, They are the tongue's wrangle, The world's pottage, the rat's star." Her poetry is her confession of sin, her prayers of both petition and praise. The stanzas of her poems are the frontlines in her battle to choose a side. Sexton longs to touch the sweet, soft, white underbelly of the world, but consistently draws her hand back from the raised and prickling hairs on the back of the beast. She sees the wonders of the world, even acknowledges God, but as she writes, "need is not quite belief."In All My Pretty Ones, Sexton does seem at times to step over the edge, completely, into either the bliss of ignorance or the dead man's walk of self-absorbed bitterness. Her poem, "The Hangman," is a heartbreaking picture of disappointed motherhood, in which a child is stricken near death, only to live on, cruelly. "Supplied With air, against my guilty wish, Your clogged pipes cried Like Lazarus."Against her guilty wish. How many times have we wished for the beauty to die? How many times have we begged the eyes of the face of God to simply turn away? It is this kind of realism in Sexton's poetry that does not anger or hurt her reader, because she will not take a side. Indeed, she is not without her moments of joy. "I Remember" is one of the few poems in this collection which lingers for its whole duration on the beautiful. At least in this collection, it is a rare moment. All of her images are of satisfied adventure, not perfect, but just right. "...one day I tied my hair back with a ribbon and you said that I looked almost like a puritan lady and what I remember best is that the door to your room was the door to mine.

The magnificent title poem opens this second volume of Sexton's poetry and again showcases her innovative skill at weaving words, images and rhythm to gripping effect in its description of sorting through personal effects after the death of a parent. There's some quirky humour in A Curse Against Elegant Elegies, especially in the image of the surly preacher who shuffled into the yard "looking for a scapegoat." One of the most moving poems here is titled For Eleanor Boylan Talking With God, a lovely and touching description of a devout friend. And one of the saddest poems, The Truth The Dead Know, reveals the poet's feelings as she leaves church after the death of her father. The flowing structure of the poem and the resigned sense of finality are breathtaking; it reminds me of the music of Angels Of Light, especially the desolate landscape of Song For My Father on the New Mother album. The poem Old brilliantly juxtaposes the reality of a geriatric ward's needles, rubber sheets and tubes with a childhood dream of eating wild blueberries, whilst The Starry Night which opens with a quote by Vincent Van Gogh, reminds me of Sylvia Plath's Ariel and Don McLean's song Starry Starry Night. Other favourites of mine include Lament, In The Deep Museum and The Black Art which reminds me of the poem Her Kind from the first book To Bedlam And Part Way Back. All My Pretty Ones shows Anne Sexton at the height of her art and together with Bedlam, should be in every poetry lover's collection.

All My Pretty One is, in my opinion, the best of the Sexton works, even as it is also one of the most difficult to read for being sad. When she says "Also, I am tired of all the dead" in the poem "A Curse Against Elegies", it is a measure of her strength as a poet how heavily that line reads. It should also not be forgotten (as it too often is about Sexton) how well this work depicts not only the sorrow, but the tentative steps towards something lighter: "I cannot promise very much. I give you the images I know. Lie still with me and watch. A pheasant moves by like a seal, pulled through the mulch by his thick white collar. He's on show like a clown. He drags a beige feather that he removed, one time, from an old lady's hat. We laugh and we touch. I promise you love. Time will not take away that." All My Pretty Ones is also one of the poetry books that functions very well together as a book rather than as merely a collection of poems. Accordingly, even though many or most of these poems are available through other collections, I would advise you to read this as a single volume if you can find it.