Erica Jong

A bespectacled artist called LearFirst perfected this smile in a sneer.He was clever and witty;He gave life to this ditty –That original author called Lear.

all the mad young men who hate their mothers,all the squalling baby boys . . .have grown up& now write book reviewsor novels about the lifeof the knife-fighter,or movies in which grown mentorture each other-all the squalling boring baby boys!I am not part of their game.I have no penis.I have a pen, two eyes& I…

with its lemony tang, its tart sweetness& your whole body stings with singingso that your toes sing to your mouth& your navel whistles to your breasts& your breasts wave to everyoneas you walk down the summer street?What will you dowhen nothing will dobut to throw your arms around trees& men& greet every woman as sister&…

-Molly Miranda Jong-Fast, age 3 1/2God is the one,Molly,whether we call himHim,or Her,treeform or spewingvolcano,Vesuvius or vulva,penis-rock,or reindeer-on-cave-wall,God is the onewho eatsour meat,Molly,& we yieldour meatup willingly.Meat is ourelement,meat is ourlesson.When our bodies fillwith each other,when our blood swellsin our organsaching for another,body of meat,heart of meat,soul of meat,we are only doingwhat God wantsus to—meat…

as the wound cries for saltas the lover criesfor her unrequited loveras the ice cries outfor melting in the spring.My heart is a springthat pumps red blood.I would give my child,my girl child, my daughterthe vision of a motherwho does not flinchwhen the heavy heel of mancomes down,who loves the peniswhen it pumps rich red…

I looked at the book.‘It will stand,’ I thought.Not a palacebuilt by a newspaper czar,nor a mud hovelthat the sea will soften,but a good house of wordsnear the seawith everything plumb.That is the most I can ask.I have cut the wood myselffrom my own forests,I have sanded it smoothwith the grain.I have left knotholesfor the…

to the passionate darkness,you gaze out the windowat the light.My love is the thingthat frees youto follow your eyes,as your love,a sword made of moonlightand blood,and smelling of sexand salt marshes,frees me to gazewith a calm inwardeye.In all your frenzied searchingyou never stoodcalmly at the window.But now the sea,the city and the skyare all seenas…

to catch up with us.We have been travelinga long time.Behind us are forests of bookswith pages green as leaves.A blood sun staresover the horizon.Our souls are slow.They walk miles behindour long shadows.They do not dance.They need all their strengthmerely to follow us.Sometimes we run too fastor trip climbingthe rotten rungsin fame’s ladder.Our souls knowit leads…

does not need to be beaten.She beats herself.Not with a leather whip,or with stick or twigs,not with a blackjackor a billyclub,but with the fine whipof her own tongue& the subtle beatingof her mindagainst her mind.For who can hate her half so wellas she hates herself?& who can match the finesseof her self-abuse?Years of trainingare required…

my worship of the Goddessalonecondemns you to the fire. . .I blow uponyour least fingernail& it flares cyclamen & rose.I suck flames from your ears.I touch your perfect nostrils& they, too, flame gentlylike that pale rosecalled ‘sweetheart’.Your eyelids are tender purplelike the base of the flamebefore it blues.O child of fire,O tiny devotee of the…