By Erica Jong
become gentle . . .
Erica Jong’s novels are fearless and passionate. So, too, is her poetry. notwithstanding renowned—and occasionally vilified—for her unabashedly sensual fiction, the writer considers herself a poet at the beginning. “It was once my poetry,” Jong writes, “that stored me sane, that saved me complete, that stored me alive.”
Becoming mild comprises poems in my view chosen by means of Jong from her entire oeuvre of acclaimed released works—poems of affection, intercourse, witches, gods, and demons; word-songs brimming with wit, center, bitterness, sorrow, and fact. From the earliest poetic musings of a super younger artist first testing her wings to later works born of expertise and adulthood, unpublished prior to showing during this assortment, Jong’s natural artistry shines like a beacon as she writes, fearlessly and passionately, approximately being a lady, approximately being alive.
This booklet beneficial properties an illustrated biography of Erica Jong together with infrequent images and never-before-seen files from the author’s own assortment.
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Extra info for Becoming Light: Poems New and Selected
Not I. . . . . . nature. Leslie Howard's name had come up, who knows why, maybe apropos my seeing Gone With the Wind for the first time in Paris and being underwhelmed with both it and him. Who? Howard. I didn't see the point of Howard. . . , why would I see Montgomery Clift's portrayal of Matthew Garth in Red River as the high point in movie acting and be numb dumb deaf and blind to the virtues of Howard, and Howard's Ashley, and now his last name is coming to me, Wilkes. Ashley Wilkes.
I continue to get lost daily, but without the nervousness. I make a point of getting into bed no later than 2 AM but rarely get to sleep Page 45 long before the sky, approaching dawn, is gray, and wake, to a vicious inner alarm clock at 7:53, sniffing, roaming the apartment like a lair, almost afraid to open the shutters to the unanswerable blast of light. Leave it to you not to have venetian blinds. And you never were an early riser. It's not just the light, it's vapors and smells that incite me to rise even though I'm desperate for rest and hurry to the cafe to catch Rome on the prowl with a restless beautifully purposeless fervor, destinies never in for questioning, before the senses are numbed by the imminent influx of habitués arriving on growling motorcycles, which make up in noise what they lack in horsepower, converging on the cafe, the near empty space suddenly flooded with cool cats who light up their filterless Camels in unison and blow smoke into each other's faces with the intensity of a lifeguard giving artificial respiration to a rescued child.
Why can't we do both? " <><><><><><><><><><><><> My ragazzo now groans with fatigue. And this sound, far more intense than his complaining, rouses me to lead us through the zigzag into a perilous traffic jam via Via della Cuccagna, distracting ragazzo from distraction, (transcending all physical exhaustion), like belts and wallets, and grab the first Roman taxi I have taken except to and from the airport or train station. Inside, I continue my reverie about the filmic possibilities of Revolt.