'Hurry Up Please It's Time' by Anne Sexton

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What is death, I ask.
What is life, you ask.
I give them both my buttocks,
my two wheels rolling off toward Nirvana.
They are neat as a wallet,
opening and closing on their coins,
the quarters, the nickels,
straight into the crapper.
Why shouldn't I pull down my pants
and moon the executioner
as well as paste raisins on my breasts?
Why shouldn't I pull down my pants
and show my little cunny to Tom
and Albert? They wee-wee funny.
I wee-wee like a squaw.
I have ink but no pen, still
I dream that I can piss in God's eye.
I dream I'm a boy with a zipper.
It's so practical, la de dah.
The trouble with being a woman, Skeezix,
is being a little girl in the first place.
Not all the books of the world will change that.
I have swallowed an orange, being woman.
You have swallowed a ruler, being man.
Yet waiting to die we are the same thing.
Jehovah pleasures himself with his axe
before we are both overthrown.
Skeezix, you are me. La de dah.
You grow a beard but our drool is identical.

Forgive us, Father, for we know not.

Today is November 14th, 1972.
I live in Weston, Mass., Middlesex County,
U.S.A., and it rains steadily
in the pond like white puppy eyes.
The pond is waiting for its skin.
the pond is waiting for its leather.
The pond is waiting for December and its Novocain.

It begins:

Interrogator:
What can you say of your last seven days?

Anne:
They were tired.

Interrogator:
One day is enough to perfect a man.

Anne:
I watered and fed the plant.

*

My undertaker waits for me.
he is probably twenty-three now,
learning his trade.
He'll stitch up the gren,
he'll fasten the bones down
lest they fly away.
I am flying today.
I am not tired today.
I am a motor.
I am cramming in the sugar.
I am running up the hallways.
I am squeezing out the milk.
I am dissecting the dictionary.
I am God, la de dah.
Peanut butter is the American food.
We all eat it, being patriotic.

Ms. Dog is out fighting the dollars,
rolling in a field of bucks.
You've got it made if you take the wafer,
take some wine,
take some bucks,
the green papery song of the office.
What a jello she could make with it,
the fives, the tens, the twenties,
all in a goo to feed the baby.
Andrew Jackson as an hors d'oeuvre,
la de dah.
I wish I were the U.S. Mint,
turning it all out,
turtle green
and monk black.
Who's that at the podium
in black and white,
blurting into the mike?
Ms. Dog.
Is she spilling her guts?
You bet.
Otherwise they cough...
The day is slipping away, why am I
out here, what do they want?
I am sorrowful in November...
(no they don't want that,
they want bee stings).
Toot, toot, tootsy don't cry.
Toot, toot, tootsy good-bye.
If you don't get a letter then
you'll know I'm in jail...
Remember that, Skeezix,
our first song?

Who's thinking those things?
Ms. Dog! She's out fighting the dollars.
Milk is the American drink.
Oh queens of sorrows,
oh water lady,
place me in your cup
and pull over the clouds
so no one can see.
She don't want no dollars.
She done want a mama.
The white of the white.

Anne says:
This is the rainy season.
I am sorrowful in November.
The kettle is whistling.
I must butter the toast.
And give it jam too.
My kitchen is a heart.
I must feed it oxygen once in a while
and mother the mother.

*

Say the woman is forty-four.
Say she is five seven-and-a-half.
Say her hair is stick color.
Say her eyes are chameleon.
Would you put her in a sack and bury her,
suck her down into the dumb dirt?
Some would.
If not, time will.
Ms. Dog, how much time you got left?
Ms. Dog, when you gonna feel that cold nose?
You better get straight with the Maker
cuz it's coming, it's a coming!
The cup of coffee is growing and growing
and they're gonna stick your little doll's head
into it and your lungs a gonna get paid
and your clothes a gonna melt.
Hear that, Ms. Dog!
You of the songs,
you of the classroom,
you of the pocketa-pocketa,
you hungry mother,
you spleen baby!
Them angels gonna be cut down like wheat.
Them songs gonna be sliced with a razor.
Them kitchens gonna get a boulder in the belly.
Them phones gonna be torn out at the root.
There's power in the Lord, baby,
and he's gonna turn off the moon.
He's gonna nail you up in a closet
and there'll be no more Atlantic,
no more dreams, no more seeds.
One noon as you walk out to the mailbox
He'll snatch you up --
a wopman beside the road like a red mitten.

There's a sack over my head.
I can't see. I'm blind.
The sea collapses.
The sun is a bone.
Hi-ho the derry-o,
we all fall down.
If I were a fisherman I could comprehend.
They fish right through the door
and pull eyes from the fire.
They rock upon the daybreak
and amputate the waters.
They are beating the sea,
they are hurting it,
delving down into the inscrutable salt.

*

When mother left the room
and left me in the big black
and sent away my kitty
to be fried in the camps
and took away my blanket
to wash the me out of it
I lay in the soiled cold and prayed.
It was a little jail in which
I was never slapped with kisses.
I was the engine that couldn't.
Cold wigs blew on the trees outside
and car lights flew like roosters
on the ceiling.
Cradle, you are a grave place.

Interrogator:
What color is the devil?

Anne:
Black and blue.

Interrogator:
What goes up the chimney?

Anne:
Fat Lazarus in his red suit.

Forgive us, Father, for we know not.

Ms. Dog prefers to sunbathe nude.
Let the indifferent sky look on.
So what!
Let Mrs. Sewal pull the curtain back,
from her second story.
So what!
Let United Parcel Service see my parcel.
La de dah.
Sun, you hammer of yellow,
you hat on fire,
you honeysuckle mama,
pour your blonde on me!
Let me laugh for an entire hour
at your supreme being, your Cadillac stuff,
because I've come a long way
from Brussels sprouts.
I've come a long way to peel off my clothes
and lay me down in the grass.
Once only my palms showed.
Once I hung around in my woolly tank suit,
drying my hair in those little meatball curls.
Now I am clothed in gold air with
one dozen halos glistening on my skin.
I am a fortunate lady.
I've gotten out of my pouch
and my teeth are glad
and my heart, that witness,
beats well at the thought.

Oh body, be glad.
You are good goods.

*

Middle-class lady,
you make me smile.
You dig a hole
and come out with a sunburn.
If someone hands you a glass of water
you start constructing a sailboat.
If someone hands you a candy wrapper,
you take it to the book binder.
Pocketa-pocketa.

Once upon a time Ms. Dog was sixty-six.
She had white hair and wrinkles deep as splinters.
her portrait was nailed up like Christ
and she said of it:
That's when I was forty-two,
down in Rockport with a hat on for the sun,
and Barbara drew a line drawing.
We were, at that moment, drinking vodka
and ginger beer and there was a chill in the air,
although it was July, and she gave me her sweater
to bundle up in. The next summer Skeezix tied
strings in that hat when we were fishing in Maine.
(It had gone into the lake twice.)
Of such moments is happiness made.

Forgive us, Father, for we know not.

Once upon a time we were all born,
popped out like jelly rolls
forgetting our fishdom,
the pleasuring seas,
the country of comfort,
spanked into the oxygens of death,
Good morning life, we say when we wake,
hail mary coffee toast
and we Americans take juice,
a liquid sun going down.
Good morning life.
To wake up is to be born.
To brush your teeth is to be alive.
To make a bowel movement is also desireable.
La de dah,
it's all routine.
Often there are wars
yet the shops keep open
and sausages are still fried.
People rub someone.
People copulate
entering each other's blood,
tying each other's tendons in knots,
transplanting their lives into the bed.
It doesn't matter if there are wars,
the business of life continues
unless you're the one that gets it.
Mama, they say, as their intestines
leak out. Even without wars
life is dangerous.
Boats spring leaks.
Cigarettes explode.
The snow could be radioactive.
Cancer could ooze out of the radio.
Who knows?
Ms. Dog stands on the shore
and the sea keeps rocking in
and she wants to talk to God.

Interrogator:
Why talk to God?

Anne:
It's better than playing bridge.

*

Learning to talk is a complex business.
My daughter's first word was utta,
meaning button.
Before there are words
do you dream?
In utero
do you dream?
Who taught you to suck?
And how come?
You don't need to be taught to cry.
The soul presses a button.
Is the cry saying something?
Does it mean help?
Or hello?
The cry of a gull is beautiful
and the cry of a crow is ugly
but what I want to know
is whether they mean the same thing.
Somewhere a man sits with indigestion
and he doesn't care.
A woman is buying bracelets
and earrings and she doesn't care.
La de dah.

Forgive us, Father, for we know not.

There are stars and faces.
There is ketchup and guitars.
There is the hand of a small child
when you're crossing the street.
There is the old man's last words:
More light! More light!
Ms. Dog wouldn't give them her buttocks.
She wouldn't moon at them.
Just at the killers of the dream.
The bus boys of the soul.
Or at death
who wants to make her a mummy.
And you too!
Wants to stuf her in a cold shoe
and then amputate the foot.
And you too!
La de dah.
What's the point of fighting the dollars
when all you need is a warm bed?
When the dog barks you let him in.
All we need is someone to let us in.
And one other thing:
to consider the lilies in the field.
Of course earth is a stranger, we pull at its
arms and still it won't speak.
The sea is worse.
It comes in, falling to its knees
but we can't translate the language.
It is only known that they are here to worship,
to worship the terror of the rain,
the mud and all its people,
the body itself,
working like a city,
the night and its slow blood
the autumn sky, mary blue.
but more than that,
to worship the question itself,
though the buildings burn
and the big people topple over in a faint.
Bring a flashlight, Ms. Dog,
and look in every corner of the brain
and ask and ask and ask
until the kingdom,
however queer,
will come.


Submitted by Dan Hayes

Editor 1 Interpretation

Hurry Up Please It's Time: A Literary Criticism and Interpretation

Anne Sexton's poem, Hurry Up Please It's Time, is a masterpiece of contemporary literature. Written in 1960, this poem is a satire on the post-war American society, particularly the middle-class values and consumerism. With its witty and cynical tone, the poem speaks to the reader, urging them to wake up and see the reality of their lives. In this literary criticism and interpretation, we will examine the themes, form, and imagery of the poem, and what they signify.

Themes

The poem Hurry Up Please It's Time deals with several themes, the most prominent being the hollowness of the American dream, the consumerist culture, and the loss of identity. The poem is written in the form of a conversation between a bartender and his customer, where the bartender, who represents society, urges the customer to hurry up and leave, as it's closing time. The customer, in turn, represents the American individual, who is lost in the consumerist culture and has no sense of identity.

Sexton uses the character of the customer to show the emptiness of the American dream. The customer is depicted as someone who is consumed by his desires, spending his money on drinks and women, without any regard for the consequences. The constant repetition of the phrase "hurry up please it's time" reflects the urgency of the situation, as the customer's time is running out. Sexton is showing us that the American dream is a mirage, as it is built on the foundation of consumerism, which leaves individuals empty and unfulfilled.

Another theme that Sexton explores in the poem is the consumerist culture. The poem is full of references to products and brands, such as Coca-Cola, Budweiser, and Camel cigarettes. Sexton is highlighting the fact that the American society is obsessed with material possessions, and that people are defined by what they own, rather than who they are. The constant advertisements and slogans have brainwashed people into believing that their happiness lies in the products they consume.

Finally, the poem deals with the loss of identity. The customer is depicted as someone who is lost in the crowd, with no sense of individuality. He is identified by the products he consumes, rather than his personality or character. Sexton is showing us that the consumerist culture has robbed people of their individuality, reducing them to mere statistics in the market.

Form

The poem Hurry Up Please It's Time is written in free verse, with irregular line lengths and no rhyme scheme. The form of the poem reflects the urgency and chaos of the situation, as the customer is being forced to leave the bar. The lack of a regular structure also reflects the lack of order and meaning in the American society, where people are lost in the consumerist culture.

The poem is also full of enjambments, where the lines run into each other without punctuation. This creates a sense of continuity and fluidity, as if the conversation between the bartender and the customer is ongoing. The lack of punctuation also reflects the blur of time and space, as the night progresses and the customer becomes more drunk and disoriented.

Imagery

Sexton uses vivid and striking imagery throughout the poem, to create a sense of the environment and the characters. The bar is described as a "palace" and a "fortress", which implies that it is a place of refuge and safety for the customer. However, the images of "spilled bourbon" and "cigarette burns" suggest that the bar is also a place of vice and excess, where people come to forget their problems.

The character of the bartender is described as "Fat Henry", which creates a sense of familiarity and intimacy. However, the image of the "silverfish" crawling out of his beard suggests that he is unclean and unpleasant. This image also reflects the theme of loss of identity, as the bartender is reduced to a caricature of himself, with no sense of individuality.

The customer is depicted as someone who is lost in the crowd, with no sense of identity or purpose. He is described as a "soda jerk", which implies that he is a low-level worker in the consumerist culture. The images of the "brassiere" and the "girdle" suggest that he is interested only in the physical aspects of life, and is not concerned with deeper issues.

Conclusion

In conclusion, Hurry Up Please It's Time is a powerful poem that critiques the consumerist culture of post-war America. Sexton uses the characters of the bartender and the customer to highlight the hollowness of the American dream, the loss of identity, and the obsession with material possessions. The form of the poem reflects the chaos and urgency of the situation, while the vivid imagery creates a sense of the environment and the characters. This poem is a timeless critique of the American society, and its message is as relevant today as it was when it was written.

Editor 2 Analysis and Explanation

Hurry Up Please It's Time: An Analysis of Anne Sexton's Classic Poem

Anne Sexton is a renowned American poet who is known for her confessional style of writing. Her poems are often autobiographical and deal with themes of mental illness, death, and sexuality. One of her most famous poems is "Hurry Up Please It's Time," which was published in her 1969 collection, "Live or Die." In this poem, Sexton uses a conversational tone to address a male character, urging him to leave her house and go home to his wife. The poem is a commentary on the societal expectations placed on women and the double standards that exist in relationships.

The poem begins with the speaker addressing the male character, "Hurry up please it's time." The urgency in the tone of the speaker suggests that the male character has overstayed his welcome and needs to leave. The use of the phrase "it's time" also implies that there is a deadline or a schedule that needs to be followed. The speaker then goes on to list a series of tasks that the male character needs to complete before leaving. These tasks include putting on his trousers, tying his tie, and combing his hair. The speaker's insistence on these tasks suggests that the male character is not taking the situation seriously and needs to be reminded of his responsibilities.

The poem then takes a turn as the speaker begins to address the male character's wife. The speaker says, "She's had a long wait." This line suggests that the male character has been unfaithful to his wife and that she has been waiting for him to come home. The speaker's sympathy towards the wife is evident in this line, and it highlights the societal expectations placed on women to be faithful and patient in relationships. The speaker then goes on to say, "Out with it, Daddy, the stiff white bag of your body." This line is a reference to the male character's body and suggests that he is old and no longer desirable. The use of the word "Daddy" is also significant as it implies a power dynamic between the male character and the speaker.

The poem then takes another turn as the speaker begins to address herself. The speaker says, "I won't open the door again." This line suggests that the speaker has been in this situation before and has allowed the male character to come back into her life. The speaker's resolve to not open the door again suggests that she has learned from her past mistakes and is taking control of the situation. The speaker then goes on to say, "I'm tired, I'm hungry, I'm sore." These lines suggest that the speaker has been used by the male character and is now feeling the physical and emotional effects of their relationship.

The poem ends with the speaker addressing the male character once again. The speaker says, "Hurry up please it's time." This line is repeated from the beginning of the poem and suggests that the male character needs to leave immediately. The urgency in the tone of the speaker is heightened in this final line, and it suggests that the speaker is fed up with the male character's behavior.

Overall, "Hurry Up Please It's Time" is a commentary on the societal expectations placed on women in relationships and the double standards that exist. The poem highlights the power dynamic between men and women and the physical and emotional toll that relationships can take on women. The conversational tone of the poem makes it accessible to readers and allows them to connect with the speaker's emotions. The repetition of the line "Hurry up please it's time" adds to the urgency of the poem and emphasizes the speaker's frustration with the male character. Anne Sexton's use of language and imagery in this poem is powerful and effective, making "Hurry Up Please It's Time" a classic example of confessional poetry.

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