Erica Jong

(26 March 1942 / New York City)

Erica Jong Poems

1. A Bespectacled Artist Called Lear 2/3/2015
2. You Operate 3/28/2012
3. You Whom I Hoped To Reach By Writing 3/28/2012
4. The Woman Of It 3/28/2012
5. Touch 3/28/2012
6. What You Need To Be A Writer 3/28/2012
7. The Book With Four Backs 3/28/2012
8. The Buddha In The Womb 3/28/2012
9. The Cover Of The Book 3/28/2012
10. The Ecological Apocalypse 3/28/2012
11. For Howard Moss 3/28/2012
12. Here Comes 3/28/2012
13. His Silence 3/28/2012
14. I Sleep With 3/28/2012
15. The Keys 3/28/2012
16. Her Broom, Or The Ride Of The Witch 3/28/2012
17. The Long Tunnel Of Wanting You 3/28/2012
18. The Man Under The Bed 3/28/2012
19. Morning Madness 3/28/2012
20. Mute Marriages 3/28/2012
21. On Reading A Vast Anthology 3/28/2012
22. The Other Side Of The Page 3/28/2012
23. Playing With The Boys 3/28/2012
24. Poem For Molly's Fortieth Birthday 3/28/2012
25. Poem To Kabir 3/28/2012
26. The Perfect Poet 3/28/2012
27. The Poet As A Feeler Of Pain 3/28/2012
28. Regret For Mimi Bailin 3/28/2012
29. Sailing Home 3/28/2012
30. Self-Portrait In Shoulder Stand 3/28/2012
31. She Leaps 3/28/2012
32. Statue 3/28/2012
33. To James Boswell In London 3/28/2012
34. To Jon In October 3/28/2012
35. Time Leak 3/28/2012
36. To X. (With Ephemeral Kisses) 3/28/2012
37. To Pablo Neruda 3/28/2012
38. Student Revolution 3/28/2012
39. Sunjuice 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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