Erica Jong

(26 March 1942 / New York City)

Erica Jong Poems

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

To Whom It May Concern

In Autumn,
as in Spring,
the sap flows,
the sap wishes to race
against heartbeats
before the winter,
before the winter
buries us
in her usual shroud of ice.

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