Erica Jong

(26 March 1942 / New York City)

Erica Jong Poems

1. A Bespectacled Artist Called Lear 2/3/2015
2. Venice, November, 1966 3/28/2012
3. Walking Through The Upper East Side 3/28/2012
4. What You Need To Be A Writer 3/28/2012
5. The Woman Of It 3/28/2012
6. You Hate The Telephone 3/28/2012
7. You Operate 3/28/2012
8. You Whom I Hoped To Reach By Writing 3/28/2012
9. Zen & The Art Of Poetry 3/28/2012
10. The Book With Four Backs 3/28/2012
11. The Buddha In The Womb 3/28/2012
12. The Catch 3/28/2012
13. The Central Passion 3/28/2012
14. Dear Keats 3/28/2012
15. The Cover Of The Book 3/28/2012
16. Dear Anne Sexton 3/28/2012
17. Driving Me Away 3/28/2012
18. The Ecological Apocalypse 3/28/2012
19. Egyptology 3/28/2012
20. Eveningsong At Bellosguardo 3/28/2012
21. Flight To Catalina 3/28/2012
22. For Howard Moss 3/28/2012
23. Gardener 3/28/2012
24. Here Comes 3/28/2012
25. His Silence 3/28/2012
26. If God Is A Dog 3/28/2012
27. Insomnia & Poetry 3/28/2012
28. The Death Of Goddesses 3/28/2012
29. I Sleep With 3/28/2012
30. I Try To Keep 3/28/2012
31. The Keys 3/28/2012
32. Knives 3/28/2012
33. Her Broom, Or The Ride Of The Witch 3/28/2012
34. Letter To Myselves 3/28/2012
35. The Man Giving Birth In The Dark 3/28/2012
36. The Man Under The Bed 3/28/2012
37. The Long Tunnel Of Wanting You 3/28/2012
38. Morning Madness 3/28/2012
39. Mute Marriages 3/28/2012
40. My Death 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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