Erica Jong

(26 March 1942 / New York City)

Erica Jong Poems

1. A Bespectacled Artist Called Lear 2/3/2015
2. The Woman Of It 3/28/2012
3. You Operate 3/28/2012
4. You Whom I Hoped To Reach By Writing 3/28/2012
5. What You Need To Be A Writer 3/28/2012
6. The Book With Four Backs 3/28/2012
7. The Buddha In The Womb 3/28/2012
8. The Catch 3/28/2012
9. The Central Passion 3/28/2012
10. The Cover Of The Book 3/28/2012
11. Dear Anne Sexton 3/28/2012
12. Dear Keats 3/28/2012
13. Driving Me Away 3/28/2012
14. The Ecological Apocalypse 3/28/2012
15. Egyptology 3/28/2012
16. For Howard Moss 3/28/2012
17. Gardener 3/28/2012
18. Here Comes 3/28/2012
19. His Silence 3/28/2012
20. The Death Of Goddesses 3/28/2012
21. I Sleep With 3/28/2012
22. The Keys 3/28/2012
23. Her Broom, Or The Ride Of The Witch 3/28/2012
24. The Long Tunnel Of Wanting You 3/28/2012
25. The Man Under The Bed 3/28/2012
26. Morning Madness 3/28/2012
27. Mute Marriages 3/28/2012
28. Near The Black Forest 3/28/2012
29. On Reading A Vast Anthology 3/28/2012
30. On The Avenue 3/28/2012
31. On The First Night 3/28/2012
32. Playing With The Boys 3/28/2012
33. Poem For Molly's Fortieth Birthday 3/28/2012
34. Poem To Kabir 3/28/2012
35. The Perfect Poet 3/28/2012
36. The Poet As A Feeler Of Pain 3/28/2012
37. Sailing Home 3/28/2012
38. Self-Portrait 3/28/2012
39. Self-Portrait In Shoulder Stand 3/28/2012
40. Sexual Soup 3/28/2012
Best Poem of Erica Jong

Letter To My Lover After Seven Years

You gave me the child
that seamed my belly
& stitched up my life.

You gave me: one book of love poems,
five years of peace
& two of pain.

You gave me darkness, light, laughter
& the certain knowledge
that we someday die.

You gave me seven years
during which the cells of my body
died & were reborn.

Now we have died
into the limbo of lost loves,
that wreckage of memories
tarnishing with time,
that litany of losses
which grows longer with the years,
as more of our friends
descend underground
& the list of our loved ...

Read the full of Letter To My Lover After Seven Years

The Artist As An Old Man

If you ask him he will talk for hours--
how at fourteen he hammered signs, fingers
raw with cold, and later painted bowers
in ladies' boudoirs; how he played checkers
for two weeks in jail, and lived on dark bread;
how he fled the border to a country
which disappeared wars ago; unfriended
crossed a continent while this century
began. He seldom speaks of painting now.

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