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.

by Anne Sexton

Comments (3)

a brilliantly descriptive poem of a day in the life of an English soldier poet? ...............superbly written.
Almost a surrealist first few lines, to immortalize break of dawn, picking a poppy over the parapet, in a Great War trench; echoing through time.
it is a great poem that has touched my heart and i know see why members of my local club encouraged me to read it