Erica Jong

(26 March 1942 / New York City)

Erica Jong Poems

41. Self-Portrait 3/28/2012
42. On The Avenue 3/28/2012
43. On The First Night 3/28/2012
44. My Death 3/28/2012
45. Near The Black Forest 3/28/2012
46. The Man Giving Birth In The Dark 3/28/2012
47. Letter To Myselves 3/28/2012
48. The Death Of Goddesses 3/28/2012
49. I Try To Keep 3/28/2012
50. Gardener 3/28/2012
51. If God Is A Dog 3/28/2012
52. For Molly, Concerning God 3/28/2012
53. Eveningsong At Bellosguardo 3/28/2012
54. Flight To Catalina 3/28/2012
55. Egyptology 3/28/2012
56. Dear Keats 3/28/2012
57. The Catch 3/28/2012
58. Zen & The Art Of Poetry 3/28/2012
59. You Hate The Telephone 3/28/2012
60. Venice, November, 1966 3/28/2012
61. Walking Through The Upper East Side 3/28/2012
62. The Truce Between The Sexes 3/28/2012
63. Unrequited 3/28/2012
64. Without Parachutes 3/28/2012
65. There is a white wood house near Hampstead Heath 3/28/2012
66. The Bed Of The World 3/28/2012
67. The Birth Of The Water Baby 3/28/2012
68. Empty 3/28/2012
69. The Heart, The Child, The World 3/28/2012
70. His Tuning Of The Night 3/28/2012
71. Paper Chains 3/28/2012
72. Still Life With Tulips 3/28/2012
73. Sleep 3/28/2012
74. Dear Anne Sexton 3/28/2012
75. For Molly 3/28/2012
76. Depression In Early Spring 3/28/2012
77. Pane Caldo 3/28/2012
78. For Claudia, Against Narrowness 3/28/2012
79. The Widower 3/28/2012
80. Mother 3/28/2012
Best Poem of Erica Jong

After The Earthquake

After the first astounding rush,
after the weeks at the lake,
the crystal, the clouds, the water lapping the rocks,
the snow breaking under our boots like skin,
& the long mornings in bed. . .

After the tangos in the kitchen,
& our eyes fixed on each other at dinner,
as if we would eat with our lids,
as if we would swallow each other. . .

I find you still
here beside me in bed,
(while my pen scratches the pad
& your skin glows as you read)
& my whole life so mellowed & changed

that at times I cannot remember
the crimp in my heart that ...

Read the full of After The Earthquake

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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