To Whom It May Concern (Erica Jong Poem)
In Autumn, as in Spring, the sap flows, the sap wishes to race against heartbeats before the winter, before the ...
In Autumn, as in Spring, the sap flows, the sap wishes to race against heartbeats before the winter, before the ...
Sometimes the poem doesn't want to come; it hides from the poet like a playful cat who has run under ...
The poet fears failure & so she says "Hold on pen-- what if the critics hate me?" & with that ...
People who live by the sea understand eternity. They copy the curves of the waves, their hearts beat with the ...
Smoke, it is all smoke in the throat of eternity. . . . For centuries, the air was full of ...
I sit at home at my desk alone as I used to do on many sunday afternoons when you came ...
If you ask him he will talk for hours-- how at fourteen he hammered signs, fingers raw with cold, and ...
Here, at the end of the world, the flowers bleed as if they were hearts, the hearts ooze a darkness ...
Because she wants to touch him, she moves away. Because she wants to talk to him, she keeps silent. Because ...
You open to me a little, then grow afraid and close again, a small boy fearing to be hurt, a ...
"...a frozen memory, like any photo, where nothing is missing, not even, and especially, nothingness..." -- Julio Cortázar, "Blow Up" ...
On the first night of the full moon, the primeval sack of ocean broke, & I gave birth to you ...
Spring, rainbows, ordinary miracles about which nothing new can be said. The stars on a clear night of a New ...
You call me courageous, I who grew up gnawing on books, as some kids gnaw on bubble gum, who married ...
the sky sinks its blue teeth into the mountains. Rising on pure will (the lurch & lift-off, the sudden swing ...
We have a small sculpture of Henry James on our terrace in New York City. Nothing would surprise him. The ...
You gave me the child that seamed my belly & stitched up my life. You gave me: one book of ...
All the endings in my life rise up against me like that sea of troubles Shakespeare mixed with metaphors; like ...
Now, moving in, cartons on the floor, the radio playing to bare walls, picture hooks left stranded in the unsoiled ...
I was sick of being a woman, sick of the pain, the irrelevant detail of sex, my own concavity uselessly ...
I want to understand the steep thing that climbs ladders in your throat. I can't make sense of you. Everywhere ...
He was six foot four, and forty-six and even colder than he thought he was James Thurber, The Thirteen Clocks ...
Dear Colette, I want to write to you about being a woman for that is what you write to me. ...
After the first astounding rush, after the weeks at the lake, the crystal, the clouds, the water lapping the rocks, ...
The lover in these poems is me; the doctor, Love. He appears as husband, lover analyst & muse, as father, ...
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