Flying at Forty
You call me
courageous,
I who grew up
gnawing on books,
as some kids
gnaw
on bubble gum,
who married disastrously
not once
but three times,
yet have a lovely daughter
I would not undo
for all the dope
in California.
Fear was my element,
fear my contagion.
I swam in it
till I became
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poem by Erica Jong
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New England Winter
Testing the soul's mettle,
the frost heaves
holes in the roads
to the heart,
the glass forest
raises up its branches
to praise all things
that catch the light
then melt.
The forest floor is white,
but here & there a boulder rises
with its glacial arrogance
& brooks that bubble
under the sheets of ice
remind us that the tundra of the soul
will soften
just a little
towards the spring.
poem by Erica Jong
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His Silence
He still wears the glass skin of childhood.
Under his hands, the stones turn mirrors.
His eyes are knives.
Who froze the ground to his feet?
Who locked his mouth into an horizon?
Why does the sun set when we touch?
I look for the lines between the silences.
He looks only for the silences.
Cram this page under his tongue.
Open him as if for surgery.
Let the red knife love slide in
poem by Erica Jong
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Autobiographical
The lover in these poems
is me;
the doctor,
Love.
He appears
as husband, lover
analyst & muse,
as father, son
& maybe even God
& surely death.
All this is true.
The man you turn to
in the dark
is many men.
This is an open secret
women share
& yet agree to hide
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poem by Erica Jong
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Regret for Mimi Bailin
Regret is the young girl who sits in the snow
& stares at her hands.
They are bluer than shadows in snow.
They are bloodless as fear.
Her fingernail moons are white.
She wants to crawl into the palm
of her own hand.
She wants extra fingers to cover
the shame of her eyes.
She wants to follow her lifeline where it leads
but it plunges deeper
than the Grand Canyon.
She stands on the edge
still hoping
she can fly.
poem by Erica Jong
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The Woman of It
Your slit so like mine:
the woman of it,
the warm womanwide of thigh,
& the comfort of it-
knowing your nipples like mine,
& the likeness of it,
watching the mirror make love,
& the lovematch;
the mirror of you
in me.
I have creamed my hands
in the cave;
I have known my mother.
Years to get past
the barrier reefs of words.
We were natural together
as two little girls in the bath.
We hoped to be women someday,
we hoped to grow up.
poem by Erica Jong
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Driving Me Away
Driving me away
is easier
than saying
goodbye-
kissing the air,
the last syllable
of truth
being always
two lips compressed
around
emptiness-
the emptiness
you dread
yet return to
as just punishment,
just reward.
Who
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poem by Erica Jong
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Near the Black Forest
Living in a house
near the Black Forest,
without any clocks,
she's begun
to listen to the walls.
Her neighbors have clocks,
not one
but twenty clocks apiece.
Sometimes
a claque of clocks
applauds
the passing of each day.
Listen to the walls
& wind your watch.
Poor love, poor love,
have they caught you
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poem by Erica Jong
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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.
The critic is only doing his job:
keeping the poet lonely.
He barks
like a dog at the door
when the master comes home.
It's in his doggy nature.
If he didn't know the poet
for the boss,
he wouldn't bark so loud.
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poem by Erica Jong
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Catching Up
We sit on a rock
to allow our souls
to catch up with us.
We have been traveling
a long time.
Behind us are forests of books
with pages green as leaves.
A blood sun stares
over the horizon.
Our souls are slow.
They walk miles behind
our long shadows.
They do not dance.
They need all their strength
merely to follow us.
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poem by Erica Jong
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