Erica Jong

(26 March 1942 / New York City)

Erica Jong Poems

161. Sunday Afternoons 1/3/2003
162. Nursing You 1/3/2003
163. Wrinkles 1/3/2003
164. Beast, Book, Body 1/3/2003
165. Letter To My Lover After Seven Years 1/3/2003
166. Climbing You 1/3/2003
167. After The Earthquake 1/3/2003

Comments about Erica Jong

  • Mariessa Retuya Mariessa Retuya (9/16/2012 10:25:00 AM)

    Hi Ms. Erica Jong good evening.. I'm Mariessa Retuya from Philippines a 3rd year student at University of Cebu Lapu-lapu and Mandaue taking up Bachelor of Science in Secondary Education specializing English and one of my course for this semester is Literary Criticism. In line with this, I would like to ask your permission to allow me to use your poem entitled WRINKLES as a material on the said course because I found your poem interesting and nice, and this would be a great help for us students. Your possible response with this message would be of great help, thank you and god speed ;)

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  • Mariessa Retuya Mariessa Retuya (9/16/2012 10:23:00 AM)

    Hi Ms. Erica Jong good evening.. I'm Mariessa Retuya from Philippines a 3rd year student at University of Cebu Lapu-lapu and Mandaue taking up Bachelor of Science in Secondary Education specializing English and one of my course for this semester is Literary Criticism. In line with this, I would like to ask your permission to allow me to use your poem entitled WRINKLES as a material on the said course because I found your poem interesting and nice, and this would be a great help for us students. Your possible response with this message would be of great help, thank you and god speed ;)

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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