Ruth Stone

(June 8, 1915 – November 19, 2011)

Ruth Stone Poems

1. Peripheries 12/27/2011
2. Speculation 12/27/2011
3. Overnight Guest 8/29/2014
4. The Pear 8/29/2014
5. The Trade-Off 8/29/2014
6. Reading 8/29/2014
7. Up There 8/29/2014
8. Relatives 8/29/2014
9. Poems 8/29/2014
10. Words 8/29/2014
11. Romance 12/27/2011
12. Genesis 12/27/2011
13. At Eighty-Three She Lives Alone 12/27/2011
14. The Porch 8/29/2014
15. The Mother 8/29/2014
16. Spring Beauties 8/29/2014
17. Repetition Of Words And Weather 8/29/2014
18. So What 8/29/2014
19. The Question 12/27/2011
20. The Ways Of Daughters 8/29/2014
21. Good Advice 8/29/2014
22. This Strangeness In My Life 8/29/2014
23. Lighter Than Air 8/29/2014
24. Not Expecting An Answer 8/29/2014
25. How It Is 8/29/2014
26. The Cabbage 12/27/2011
27. Male Gorillas 8/29/2014
28. Another Feeling 12/27/2011
29. Shapes 12/27/2011
30. Curtains 12/27/2011
31. 1941 12/27/2011
32. Always On The Train 12/27/2011
33. Look To The Future 12/27/2011
34. It Follows 12/27/2011
35. Eden, Then And Now 12/27/2011
36. The Wound 12/27/2011
37. In The Next Galaxy 1/20/2003
Best Poem of Ruth Stone

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.

Read the full of In The Next Galaxy

The Cabbage

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
of Greek extraction and possibly a fatalist.
In the apartment leaning against one wall,
your daughter's painting of a large frilled cabbage
against a dark sky with pinpoints of stars.
The eager vegetable, opening itself

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