an American poet, author, and teacher.
Life and Career
In 1959, after her husband, professor Walter Stone, committed suicide, she was forced to raise three daughters alone. (As she has pointed out, her poems are “love poems, all written to a dead man” who forced her to “reside in limbo” with her daughters.) For twenty years she traveled the US, teaching creative writing at many universities, including the University of Illinois, University of Wisconsin, Indiana University, University of California Davis, Brandeis, and finally settling at State University of New York Binghamton. She died at her home in Ripton, Vermont on November 19, 2011.
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Ruth Stone Poems
In the Next Galaxy
Things will be different. No one will lose their sight, their hearing, their gallbladder. It will be all Catskills with brand
The shock comes slowly as an afterthought.
Eden, Then and Now
In ’29 before the dust storms sandblasted Indianapolis, we believed in the milk company. Milk came in glass bottles.
Look to the Future
To you born into violence, the wars of the red ant are nothing; you, in the heart of the eruption.
Always on the Train
Writing poems about writing poems is like rolling bales of hay in Texas. Nothing but the horizon to stop you.
If you had a lot of money (by some coincidence you’re at the Nassau Inn in Princeton getting a whiff of class)
I wore a large brim hat like the women in the ads. How thin I was: such skin. Yes. It was Indianapolis;
How It Is
The sensible living aren't interested in the dead, unless there is money in it. So little you can do with them.
Putting up new curtains, other windows intrude. As though it is that first winter in Cambridge when you and I had just moved in.
At the doughnut shop twenty-three silverbacks are lined up at the bar, sitting on the stools.
You have rented an apartment. You come to this enclosure with physical relief, your heavy body climbing the stairs in the dark, the hall bulb burned out, the landlord
In the longer view it doesn’t matter. However, it’s that having lived, it matters. So that every death breaks you apart. You find yourself weeping at the door
Once you saw a drove of young pigs crossing the highway. One of them pulling his body by the front feet, the hind legs dragging flat.
Lighter Than Air
The fat girl next door would give us a nickel to walk to the old man's store and get her an ice-cream cone,
Comments about Ruth Stone
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
In the Next Galaxy
Things will be different.
No one will lose their sight,
their hearing, their gallbladder.
It will be all Catskills with brand
new wrap-around verandas.
The idea of Hitler will not
have vibrated yet.
While back here,
they are still cleaning out
pockets of wrinkled
Nazis hiding in Argentina.
But in the next galaxy,
certain planets will have true
blue skies and drinking water.