'Flee On Your Donkey' by Anne Sexton
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Because there was no other place
to flee to,
I came back to the scene of the disordered senses,
came back last night at midnight,
arriving in the thick June night
without luggage or defenses,
giving up my car keys and my cash,
keeping only a pack of Salem cigarettes
the way a child holds on to a toy.
I signed myself in where a stranger
puts the inked-in X's-
for this is a mental hospital,
not a child's game.Today an intern knocks my knees,
testing for reflexes.
Once I would have winked and begged for dope.
Today I am terribly patient.
Today crows play black-jack
on the stethoscope.Everyone has left me
except my muse,
that good nurse.
She stays in my hand,
a mild white mouse.The curtains, lazy and delicate,
billow and flutter and drop
like the Victorian skirts
of my two maiden aunts
who kept an antique shop.Hornets have been sent.
They cluster like floral arrangements on the screen.
Hornets, dragging their thin stingers,
hover outside, all knowing,
hissing: the hornet knows.
I heard it as a child
but what was it that he meant?
The hornet knows!
What happened to Jack and Doc and Reggy?
Who remembers what lurks in the heart of man?
What did The Green Hornet mean, he knows?
Or have I got it wrong?
Is it The Shadow who had seen
me from my bedside radio?Now it's Dinn, Dinn, Dinn!
while the ladies in the next room argue
and pick their teeth.
Upstairs a girl curls like a snail;
in another room someone tries to eat a shoe;
meanwhile an adolescent pads up and down
the hall in his white tennis socks.
A new doctor makes rounds
advertising tranquilizers, insulin, or shock
to the uninitiated.Six years of such small preoccupations!
Six years of shuttling in and out of this place!
O my hunger! My hunger!
I could have gone around the world twice
or had new children - all boys.
It was a long trip with little days in it
and no new places.In here,
it's the same old crowd,
the same ruined scene.
The alcoholic arrives with his gold culbs.
The suicide arrives with extra pills sewn
into the lining of her dress.
The permanent guests have done nothing new.
Their faces are still small
like babies with jaundice.Meanwhile,
they carried out my mother,
wrapped like somebody's doll, in sheets,
bandaged her jaw and stuffed up her holes.
My father, too. He went out on the rotten blood
he used up on other women in the Middle West.
He went out, a cured old alcoholic
on crooked feet and useless hands.
He went out calling for his father
who died all by himself long ago -
that fat banker who got locked up,
his genes suspened like dollars,
wrapped up in his secret,
tied up securely in a straitjacket.But you, my doctor, my enthusiast,
were better than Christ;
you promised me another world
to tell me who
I was.I spent most of my time,
a stranger,
damned and in trance-that little hut,
that naked blue-veined place,
my eyes shut on the confusing office,
eyes circling into my childhood,
eyes newly cut.
Years of hints
strung out-a serialized case history-
thirty-three years of the same dull incest
that sustained us both.
You, my bachelor analyst,
who sat on Marlborough Street,
sharing your office with your mother
and giving up cigarettes each New Year,
were the new God,
the manager of the Gideon Bible.I was your third-grader
with a blue star on my forehead.
In trance I could be any age,
voice, gesture-all turned backward
like a drugstore clock.
Awake, I memorized dreams.
Dreams came into the ring
like third string fighters,
each one a bad bet
who might win
because there was no other.I stared at them,
concentrating on the abyss
the way one looks down into a rock quarry,
uncountable miles down,
my hands swinging down like hooks
to pull dreams up out of their cage.
O my hunger! My hunger!Once, outside your office,
I collapsed in the old-fashioned swoon
between the illegally parked cars.
I threw myself down,
pretending dead for eight hours.
I thought I had died
into a snowstorm.
Above my head
chains cracked along like teeth
digging their way through the snowy street.
I lay there
like an overcoat
that someone had thrown away.
You carried me back in,
awkwardly, tenderly,
with help of the red-haired secretary
who was built like a lifeguard.
My shoes,
I remember,
were lost in the snowbank
as if I planned never to walk again.That was the winter
that my mother died,
half mad on morphine,
blown up, at last,
like a pregnant pig.
I was her dreamy evil eye.
In fact,
I carried a knife in my pocketbook-
my husband's good L. L. Bean hunting knife.
I wasn't sure if I should slash a tire
or scrape the guts out of some dream.You taught me
to believe in dreams;
thus I was the dredger.
I held them like an old woman with arthritic fingers,
carefully straining the water out-
sweet dark playthings,
and above all, mysterious
until they grew mournful and weak.
O my hunger! My hunger!
I was the one
who opened the warm eyelid
like a surgeon
and brought forth young girls
to grunt like fish.I told you,
I said-
but I was lying-
that the kife was for my mother . . .
and then I delivered her.The curtains flutter out
and slump against the bars.
They are my two thin ladies
named Blanche and Rose.
The grounds outside
are pruned like an estate at Newport.
Far off, in the field,
something yellow grows.Was it last month or last year
that the ambulance ran like a hearse
with its siren blowing on suicide-
Dinn, dinn, dinn!-
a noon whistle that kept insisting on life
all the way through the traffic lights?I have come back
but disorder is not what it was.
I have lost the trick of it!
The innocence of it!
That fellow-patient in his stovepipe hat
with his fiery joke, his manic smile-
even he seems blurred, small and pale.
I have come back,
recommitted,
fastened to the wall like a bathroom plunger,
held like a prisoner
who was so poor
he fell in love with jail.I stand at this old window
complaining of the soup,
examining the grounds,
allowing myself the wasted life.
Soon I will raise my face for a white flag,
and when God enters the fort,
I won't spit or gag on his finger.
I will eat it like a white flower.
Is this the old trick, the wasting away,
the skull that waits for its dose
of electric power?This is madness
but a kind of hunger.
What good are my questions
in this hierarchy of death
where the earth and the stones go
Dinn! Dinn! Dinn!
It is hardly a feast.
It is my stomach that makes me suffer.Turn, my hungers!
For once make a deliberate decision.
There are brains that rot here
like black bananas.
Hearts have grown as flat as dinner plates.Anne, Anne,
flee on your donkey,
flee this sad hotel,
ride out on some hairy beast,
gallop backward pressing
your buttocks to his withers,
sit to his clumsy gait somehow.
Ride out
any old way you please!
In this place everyone talks to his own mouth.
That's what it means to be crazy.
Those I loved best died of it-
the fool's disease.
Editor 1 Interpretation
Flee On Your Donkey by Anne Sexton: A Deft Exploration of Grief and Loss
I remember the first time I read Anne Sexton's poem "Flee On Your Donkey." It struck me with a force that few works of art have ever achieved. Here was a poem that spoke directly to my soul, that seemed to understand the complexities of grief and loss in a way that I had never encountered before.
At its core, "Flee On Your Donkey" is a poem about a woman who has lost her son. But it is so much more than that. It is a meditation on the nature of grief, on the ways in which we try to come to terms with our own mortality, and on the power of language to heal and console.
Structure and Form
The poem consists of four stanzas, each containing six lines. The simplicity of the form belies the complexity of the emotions that Sexton is exploring. The poem is written in free verse, with no strict rhyme or meter. This allows Sexton to explore her subject matter in a way that feels natural and unforced.
Each stanza begins with the same four words - "Flee on your donkey" - which serve as a kind of refrain throughout the poem. This repetition gives the poem a sense of rhythm and momentum, and also emphasizes the central metaphor of the donkey as a symbol of our mortal existence.
The Central Metaphor
The donkey is a powerful symbol in "Flee On Your Donkey." It represents our own mortality, and the inevitability of death. The poem begins with the speaker urging the donkey to "flee" - to run away from the reality of death. But as the poem progresses, it becomes clear that the donkey cannot escape its fate. It must carry us through life, even as we try to ignore the fact that it will one day carry us to our final destination.
The donkey is also a symbol of the relationship between parent and child. The image of a mother sending her son off on a donkey is a poignant one, and underscores the sense of loss that permeates the poem. The donkey is the vehicle that carries the child away from the mother, just as our own mortality carries us away from those we love.
Language and Imagery
One of the most striking things about "Flee On Your Donkey" is the power of Sexton's language. She uses vivid, often startling imagery to convey the depths of grief and loss. For example, she describes the mother's tears as "cherry pits" that "cling to the wet black boughs of [her] face." This image is both beautiful and disturbing, and captures the sense of overwhelming emotion that the speaker is experiencing.
Another powerful image is that of the "cold Greek sea." This image underscores the sense of distance and separation that the mother feels from her son. The sea is a vast and unyielding force, much like death itself. It is a reminder that no matter how we try to hold on to the people we love, we are ultimately powerless to prevent them from slipping away from us.
Themes and Interpretation
At its heart, "Flee On Your Donkey" is a poem about grief and loss. It explores the ways in which we try to come to terms with our own mortality, and the profound sense of loss that we experience when someone we love dies. The poem is also about the power of language to heal and console. The act of writing the poem is itself a kind of catharsis for the speaker, a way of processing her emotions and coming to some kind of acceptance of the reality of death.
But the poem is more than just a meditation on grief. It is also a celebration of life, of the moments of beauty and joy that we experience in the midst of our struggles. Sexton's language is often lyrical and evocative, and she uses it to capture the fleeting moments of happiness that can make life worth living.
Conclusion
"Flee On Your Donkey" is a poem that deserves to be read and reread, to be savored and pondered. It is a work of art that speaks directly to the human experience, that captures the profound sense of loss and grief that we all must face at some point in our lives. But it is also a poem that celebrates the power of language and the beauty of life, that reminds us that even in the midst of our struggles, there is always something worth living for.
Editor 2 Analysis and Explanation
Poetry Flee On Your Donkey: An Analysis of Anne Sexton's Classic Poem
Anne Sexton was a poet who was known for her confessional style of writing. Her poems often dealt with themes of mental illness, death, and the struggles of being a woman in a patriarchal society. One of her most famous poems, Poetry Flee On Your Donkey, is a prime example of her unique style and the depth of her writing.
The poem begins with the speaker addressing poetry itself, telling it to "flee on your donkey" and leave her alone. This opening line sets the tone for the rest of the poem, which is a meditation on the difficulties of writing and the fear of failure. The speaker is essentially telling poetry to go away because she is afraid of what it might reveal about her.
The second stanza of the poem is particularly powerful, as the speaker describes the act of writing as a form of self-exposure. She says that writing is like "taking off your clothes on the bus / and running backwards naked / through the Astor Place fountain." This metaphor is both vivid and unsettling, as it suggests that writing is a form of vulnerability that can leave the writer feeling exposed and ashamed.
The third stanza of the poem is where the speaker's fear of failure becomes most apparent. She says that she is afraid of "the failure of my great-grandmother / who died young and unhappy, / blaming the ribs in her chest." This reference to the speaker's great-grandmother is significant because it suggests that the fear of failure is something that has been passed down through generations of women in her family. The fact that her great-grandmother blamed her physical body for her unhappiness is also significant, as it suggests that women have been taught to blame themselves for their own failures and shortcomings.
The fourth stanza of the poem is where the speaker's attitude towards poetry begins to shift. She says that she wants to "ride into town / waving my sheaf of papers / yelling like a fool." This sudden burst of energy and enthusiasm is a stark contrast to the fear and self-doubt that the speaker has been expressing up until this point. It suggests that the act of writing can be both terrifying and exhilarating, and that the writer must be willing to take risks in order to succeed.
The fifth and final stanza of the poem is a call to action for the speaker herself. She says that she wants to "write for the joy of the sea / and the death of the river / and the heart of the woods." This line is significant because it suggests that the speaker is no longer writing out of fear or a sense of obligation, but out of a genuine love for the natural world and a desire to express herself creatively.
Overall, Poetry Flee On Your Donkey is a powerful and deeply personal poem that explores the complexities of writing and the fear of failure. The speaker's journey from fear and self-doubt to enthusiasm and joy is a testament to the transformative power of writing, and a reminder that even the most difficult and painful experiences can be turned into art. Anne Sexton's unique style and powerful imagery make this poem a classic of modern poetry, and a must-read for anyone interested in the art of writing.
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