Poem – The Washing And Dressing – Ann Taylor

Ah! why will my dear little girl be so cross, 

And cry, and look sulky, and pout? 

To lose her sweet smile is a terrible loss, 

I can’t even kiss her without. 
You say you don’t like to be wash’d and be dress’d, 

But would you not wish to be clean? 

Come, drive that long sob from your dear little breast, 

This face is not fit to be seen. 
If the water is cold, and the brush hurts your head, 

And the soap has got into your eye, 

Will the water grow warmer for all that you’ve said? 

And what good will it do you to cry? 
It is not to tease you and hurt you, my sweet, 

But only for kindness and care, 

That I wash you, and dress you, and make you look neat, 

And comb out your tanglesome hair. 
I don’t mind the trouble, if you would not cry, 

But pay me for all with a kiss; 

That’s right — ­take the towel and wipe your wet eye, 

I thought you’d be good after this.

Poem – The Spider – Ann Taylor

‘OH, look at that great ugly spider!’ said Ann; 

And screaming, she brush’d it away with her fan; 

”Tis a frightful black creature as ever can be, 

I wish that it would not come crawling on me. ‘ 
‘Indeed,’ said her mother, ‘I’ll venture to say, 

The poor thing will try to keep out of your way; 

For after the fright, and the fall, and the pain, 

It has much more occasion than you to complain. 
‘But why should you dread the poor insect, my dear? 

If it hurt you, there’d be some excuse for your fear; 

But its little black legs, as it hurried away, 

Did but tickle your arm, as they went, I dare say. 
‘For them to fear us we must grant to be just, 

Who in less than a moment can tread them to dust; 

But certainly we have no cause for alarm; 

For, were they to try, they could do us no harm. 
‘Now look! it has got to its home; do you see 

What a delicate web it has spun in the tree? 

Why here, my dear Ann, is a lesson for you: 

Come learn from this spider what patience can do! 
‘And when at your business you’re tempted to play, 

Recollect what you see in this insect to-day, 

Or else, to your shame, it may seem to be true, 

That a poor little spider is wiser than you. ‘

Poem – The Addict – Anne Sexton

Sleepmonger, 

deathmonger, 

with capsules in my palms each night, 

eight at a time from sweet pharmaceutical bottles 

I make arrangements for a pint-sized journey. 

I’m the queen of this condition. 

I’m an expert on making the trip 

and now they say I’m an addict. 

Now they ask why. 

WHY! 
Don’t they know that I promised to die! 

I’m keping in practice. 

I’m merely staying in shape. 

The pills are a mother, but better, 

every color and as good as sour balls. 

I’m on a diet from death. 
Yes, I admit 

it has gotten to be a bit of a habit- 

blows eight at a time, socked in the eye, 

hauled away by the pink, the orange, 

the green and the white goodnights. 

I’m becoming something of a chemical 

mixture. 

that’s it! 
My supply 

of tablets 

has got to last for years and years. 

I like them more than I like me. 

It’s a kind of marriage. 

It’s a kind of war where I plant bombs inside 

of myself. 
Yes 

I try 

to kill myself in small amounts, 

an innocuous occupatin. 

Actually I’m hung up on it. 

But remember I don’t make too much noise. 

And frankly no one has to lug me out 

and I don’t stand there in my winding sheet. 

I’m a little buttercup in my yellow nightie 

eating my eight loaves in a row 

and in a certain order as in 

the laying on of hands 

or the black sacrament. 
It’s a ceremony 

but like any other sport 

it’s full of rules. 

It’s like a musical tennis match where 

my mouth keeps catching the ball. 

Then I lie on; my altar 

elevated by the eight chemical kisses. 
What a lay me down this is 

with two pink, two orange, 

two green, two white goodnights. 

Fee-fi-fo-fum- 

Now I’m borrowed. 

Now I’m numb.