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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=345387" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>For John, Who Begs Me Not To Enquire Further</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not that it was beautiful,<br>but that, in the end, there was<br>a certain sense of order there;<br>something worth learning<br>in that narrow diary of my mind,<br>in the commonplaces of the asylum<br>where the cracked mirror<br>or my own selfish death<br>outstared me.<br>And if I tried<br>to give you something else,<br>something outside of myself,<br>you would not know<br>that the worst of anyone<br>can be, finally,<br>an accident of hope.<br>I tapped my own head;<br>it was a glass, an inverted bowl.<br>It is a small thing<br>to rage in your own bowl.<br>At first it was private.<br>Then it was more than myself;<br>it was you, or your house<br>or your kitchen.<br>And if you turn away<br>because there is no lesson here<br>I will hold my awkward bowl,<br>with all its cracked stars shining<br>like a complicated lie,<br>and fasten a new skin around it<br>as if I were dressing an orange<br>or a strange sun.<br>Not that it was beautiful,<br>but that I found some order there.<br>There ought to be something special<br>for someone<br>in this kind of hope.<br>This is something I would never find<br>in a lovelier place, my dear,<br>although your fear is anyone's fear,<br>like an invisible veil between us all…<br>and sometimes in private,<br>my kitchen, your kitchen,<br>my face, your face.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Anne+Sexton">Anne Sexton</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=345387" data-title="For John, Who Begs Me Not To Enquire Further de Anne Sexton" data-description="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.
A..."></div>
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