I, Erica Jong, in the midst of my life,
\nhaving had two parents, two sisters,
\ntwo husbands, two books of poems
\n& three decades of pain,
\nhaving cried for those that did not love me
\nthose who loved me- but not enough
\n& those whom I did not love-<\/p>\n
declare myself now for joy<\/p>\n
There is pain enough to nourish us everywhere;
\nit is joy that is scarce\u2026<\/p>\n
and tears to drown in, and bile enough to swallow all day long.<\/p>\n
Righteous indignation is the religion of the dead, in the house of the dead
\nwhere the dead speak to eachother in creaking voices
\neach arguing a more unhappy childhood than the other.
\nUnhappiness is cheap,
\nChildhood is a universal affliction.
\nI say to hell with the analysts of minus & plus<\/p>\n
the life-shrinkers, the diminishers of joy.
\nI say to hell with anyone
\nwho would suck on misery
\nlike a pacifier
\nin a toothless mouth.<\/p>\n
I say to hell with doom\u2026
\nDoom is cheap<\/p>\n
If the apocalypse is coming,
\nlet us wait for it in joy\u2026<\/p>\n
let us not gnash our teeth on the molars of corpses-
\nthough the molars of corpses are plentiful enough.
\nlet us not scorn laughter though scorn is plentiful enough.
\nLet us laugh and bring plenty to the scorners
\nfor they scorn themselves.
\nI myself have been a scorner
\nand have chosen scornful men,
\nmen to echo all that was narrow in myself, men to hurt me as I hurt myself.<\/p>\n
In my stinginess my friends have been stingy,
\nIn my narrowness my men have been mean.<\/p>\n
I resolve Now for joy.<\/p>\n
If that resolve means I must live alone,
\nI accept aloneness.<\/p>\n
If the joy house I inhabit must be
\na house of my own making,
\nI accept that making\u2026<\/p>\n
No joy-denyer can deny me now.
\nFor what I have is undeniable.
\nI inhabit my own house,
\nthe house of joy\u2026<\/p>\n
Dear Walt Whiman, horny old nurse to pain,
\nspeaker of passwords primeval.
\nmerit refuser, poet of body and soul..
\nYou were hankering, gross, mystical, nude,
\nyou astonished with the odour of your armpits,
\nYou cocked your hat as you chose;
\nyou cocked your cock,<\/p>\n
but you knew \u201cthe me myself\u2019.<\/p>\n
You believed in your soul,
\nand believing made others believe in theirs.<\/p>\n
The soul is contagious.
\nOne man catches another\u2019s
\nlike the plague;
\nand we are all patient spiders
\nto each other.
\nIf we can spin the joy thread
\n& also catch it-
\nIf we can be sufficient to ourselves,
\nwe need fear no entangling webs\u2026<\/p>\n
How to spin joy out of an empty heart?
\nThe joy-egg germinates even in despair.
\nOrgasms of gloom convulse the world;<\/p>\n
& and the joy-seekers huddle together.<\/p>\n
We meet on the pages of books & by beachwood fires,
\nWe meet scrawled blackly in many-folded letters.
\nWe know each other by free & generous hands,
\nWe swing like spiders on each other\u2019s souls.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I, Erica Jong, in the midst of my life, having had two parents, two sisters, two husbands, two books of poems & three decades of pain, having cried for those that did not love me those who loved me- but … Continue reading