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. To X. (With Ephemeral Kisses) 3/28/2012
6. Touch 3/28/2012
7. What You Need To Be A Writer 3/28/2012
8. The Book With Four Backs 3/28/2012
9. The Buddha In The Womb 3/28/2012
10. The Catch 3/28/2012
11. The Central Passion 3/28/2012
12. The Cover Of The Book 3/28/2012
13. Dear Anne Sexton 3/28/2012
14. Driving Me Away 3/28/2012
15. The Ecological Apocalypse 3/28/2012
16. Egyptology 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. The Other Side Of The Page 3/28/2012
33. Playing With The Boys 3/28/2012
34. Poem For Molly's Fortieth Birthday 3/28/2012
35. Poem To Kabir 3/28/2012
36. The Perfect Poet 3/28/2012
37. The Poet As A Feeler Of Pain 3/28/2012
38. Sailing Home 3/28/2012
39. Self-Portrait 3/28/2012
40. Self-Portrait In Shoulder Stand 3/28/2012
Best Poem of Erica Jong

Beast, Book, Body

I was sick of being a woman,
sick of the pain,
the irrelevant detail of sex,
my own concavity
uselessly hungering
and emptier whenever it was filled,
and filled finally
by its own emptiness,
seeking the garden of solitude
instead of men.

The white bed
in the green garden--
I looked forward
to sleeping alone
the way some long
for a lover.

Even when you arrived,
I tried to beat you
away with my sadness,
my cynical seductions,
and my trick of
turning a slave
into a master.

And all because
you made
my fingertips...

Read the full of Beast, Book, Body

The Poet Fears Failure

The poet fears failure
& so she says
"Hold on pen--
what if the critics
hate me?"
& with that question
she blots out more lines
than any critic could.

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