Love Comes First Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  I. - YOU ARE THERE

  HOLDING ON TO THE LIGHT

  THE POETRY CAT

  RAPTURE

  CONTINENTAL DIVIDE

  YOU ARE THERE

  IN VITRO

  WAITING FOR ANGELS

  THANK-YOU NOTE FOR A GRECIAN URN

  IN THE CLOUD FOREST

  POEM FOR A FAX COVER SHEET

  AGAINST GRIEF

  I DREAMED THAT THE SEA

  FIGS

  RISOTTO

  IN VINO VERITAS

  HENRY JAMES IN THE HEART OF THE CITY

  FOR GRACE IN THE HOSPITAL

  SMOKE

  II. - PEOPLE WHO CAN’T SLEEP

  THE GOD OF THE CHIMNEYS

  WHEN JEW KILLS JEW

  SLEEP

  SENTIENT

  PRAYER TO KEEP BACK THE DARK

  ELEPHANTA

  SPEAKING WITH THE DEAD

  COLLECTING VENETIAN GLASS

  BEAUTY BARE

  III. - APHRODITE’S LAUGHTER

  TALKING TO APHRODITE

  ELEGY FOR PEGASUS

  About the Author

  ALSO BY ERICA JONG

  POETRY

  Fruits & Vegetables

  Half-Lives

  Loveroot

  At the Edge of the Body

  Ordinary Miracles

  Becoming Light:

  Poems New and Selected

  FICTION

  Fear of Flying

  How to Save Your Own Life

  Fanny: Being the True History of the

  Adventures of Fanny Hackabout-Jones

  Megan’s Book of Divorce;

  Megan’s Two Houses

  Parachutes & Kisses

  Serenissima: A Novel of Venice

  (republished as Shylock’s Daughter)

  Any Woman’s Blues

  Inventing Memory

  Sappho’s Leap

  NONFICTION

  Witches

  The Devil at Large:

  Erica Jong on Henry Miller

  Fear of Fifty

  What Do Women Want?

  Reflections on a Century

  of Change

  Seducing the Demon:

  Writing for My Life

  JEREMY P. TARCHER/PENGUIN

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Canada Inc.) ∙ Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England ∙

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Copyright © 2009 by Erica Mann Jong

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. Published simultaneously in Canada

  Most Tarcher/Penguin books are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchase for sales promotions, premiums, fund-raising, and educational needs. Special books or book excerpts also can be created to fit specific needs. For details, write Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Special Markets, 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Jong, Erica.

  Love comes first: poems / by Erica Jong.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-01444-8

  I. Title.

  PS3560.O56L58 2009

  2008042190

  811’.54—dc22

  While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Max, Darwin, and Beatrice,

  Time’s arrows

  Love comes first.

  It matters the most at its worst.

  —STEPHEN SONDHEIM

  I.

  YOU ARE THERE

  HOLDING ON TO THE LIGHT

  I plant my heart in the earth.

  I water it with light.

  The sweet, green tentacles

  of Spring urge toward the light.

  They nudge the earth like fat worms wriggling,

  loosening light in the darkness.

  They open the channels and passages

  that allow the flow of life.

  Sweetness follows them.

  The sweetness of the new peapod,

  the gingko leaf in May,

  the sticky buds of the weeping cherry

  not yet burst,

  the fuzz of the pussy willow

  in the pink hour

  before dawn,

  the small green arrows of the crocus

  pushing through a glaze

  of bluish snow.

  . . .

  Oh, light that nourishes life—

  let us be mirrors

  of your splendor.

  Let us reflect your pure energy—

  not dampen it.

  Let us be givers of the light.

  The dull earth turns

  on its rusty axis.

  The dolorous echoes of the dying

  fill the ears of God—

  who responds by planting

  hearts with light,

  hearts in the moving earth.

  Let us learn to imitate

  this infinite making of new hearts.

  Air, water, earth are all we need.

  and the miracle of the heart

  alive with light.

  THE POETRY CAT

  Sometimes the poem

  doesn’t want to come;

  it hides from the poet

  like a playful cat

  who has run

  under the house

  and lurks among slugs,

  roots, and spiders’ eyes—

  left so long out of the sun

  that it is dank

  with the breath of the Troll King.

  Sometimes the poem

  darts away

  like a coy lover

  afraid of being possessed,

  feeling too much,

  losing his essential

  loneliness—

  which he calls

  freedom.

  . . .

  Sometimes the poem

  can’t requite

  the poet’s passion.

  The poem is a dance

  between poet and poem,

  but sometimes the poem

  just won’t dance

  and lurks on the sidelines

  tapping its feet—

  iambs, trochees—

  out of step with the music

  of your mariachi band.

  If the poem won’t come,


  I say: Sneak up on it.

  Pretend you don’t care.

  Sit in your chair

  reading Shakespeare, Neruda, Sappho,

  essential Emily

  and let yourself flow

  into their music.

  . . .

  Go to the kitchen

  and start peeling onions

  for homemade sugo.

  Before you know it,

  the poem will be crying

  for love

  as your ripe tomatoes

  bubble away

  with inspiration.

  When the whole house is filled

  with the tender tomato aroma,

  start kneading the pasta.

  As you rock

  over the damp, sensuous dough,

  making it bend to your will,

  as you make love to this manna

  of flour and water,

  the poem will get hungry

  and come

  just like a cat

  coming home

  when you least

  expect her.

  RAPTURE

  Two hawks live

  on my hill.

  I can tell

  where the thermals are

  by the way

  they skim the sky.

  They are scavenging

  small creatures

  but their flight

  suggests rapture

  to my upward eye.

  CONTINENTAL DIVIDE

  for G.S.B. of blessed memory

  Handcuffed by time

  I travel across this broad

  beautiful America—

  mesas, deserts,

  peaks with clouds caught

  upon them,

  the Continental Divide,

  where a drop of rain

  must decide

  whether to roll east or west

  like all of us.

  I speak to a group

  of avid aging Californians

  about daring to embrace

  the second half of life.

  The passions of the old

  are deeper

  than any wells

  the young can plumb.

  Meanwhile, you are dying

  in a New York hospital—

  your beautiful face drained

  of blood

  your arms too heavy

  to seize the day,

  your shining eyes

  dimmed by pain

  and drugs to dull it.

  You have boycotted food,

  yet all you can do is apologize

  to your grieving children

  for the trouble you cause

  by dying.

  “Don’t worry, I’m fine,”

  you say, eternal mother.

  Solitary as you will ever be,

  our love cannot save you

  from this last loneliness,

  this last rocky sea voyage

  where no one dresses for dinner.

  . . .

  Meanwhile

  I am listening to a doctor

  who claims we can all live

  to be a hundred,

  a hundred and twenty,

  if only we expand

  our arteries with exercise,

  our genitals with sex,

  our brains with crossword puzzles,

  poems, and proverbs.

  Wingless, we can fly

  over death

  if only the body

  —that laggard—

  consents.

  I suppose that drop of rain decided

  to roll west with the setting sun,

  taking you along.

  The Californian doctor is quoting

  Victor Hugo now:

  The eyes of the young show flame,

  the eyes of the old, light.

  More light, Doctor!

  How can we accept

  time’s jagged jaws

  even as we are being eaten?

  How can we endure

  the extinguishing of eyes—

  those mirroring all of mortality?

  Doctor—

  is death the aberration—

  or is life?

  As for love—

  why is it never enough

  to save us?

  YOU ARE THERE

  You are there.

  You have always been

  there.

  Even when you thought

  you were climbing

  you had already arrived.

  Even when you were

  breathing hard,

  you were at rest.

  Even then it was clear

  you were there.

  Not in our nature

  to know what

  is journey and what

  arrival.

  Even if we knew

  we would not admit.

  Even if we lived

  we would think

  we were just

  germinating.

  To live is to be

  uncertain.

  Certainty comes

  at the end.

  IN VITRO

  My zygotes

  (once or twice

  removed)

  are frightened

  of their

  petri bassinet.

  Who will be

  sacrificed

  and who spared?

  Now that we can gauge

  their genetic flaws

  we pause

  and contemplate

  their fate.

  God- or goddesslike

  we break

  their small

  potential hearts in two.

  Mitochondria to woo

  perfection

  in a stew

  of DNA.

  We never knew

  such terrible

  selection,

  perfection,

  resurrection

  when we were . . .

  (oh, were we ever?)

  young.

  WAITING FOR ANGELS

  I do not know what to do,

  my mind’s in two.

  —SAPPHO

  Like Sappho,

  my mind

  is divided

  between tribute

  to angels

  and dark hosannas—

  to daemons.

  I sit shiva

  for the dead world—

  where the bride’s

  hair is cut

  to undo

  her power

  (everywhere but

  in her home),

  . . .

  where a glass is crushed

  to denote permanence,

  where books

  are looked forward to

  like love letters,

  where a rabbi,

  priest, or shaman

  may be asked

  to define

  good and evil.

  And where we avidly debate

  all night

  about angels

  dancing

  on the filigreed heads

  of silver—or golden—

  pins.

  No more.

  All gone.

  We celebrate our own

  black masses in our beds

  or on our blood-strewn streets.

  . . .

  We believe in no higher law,

  no higher power,

  no representative on earth

  of the divine dialogue,

  no one who speaks—

  or even whispers—

  eternal truth.

  And so we wait

  for angels,

  hoping that these messengers—

  half god, half human—

  will fill the vacuum

  of our hearts.

  Never have so many

  waited for so few!

  Never has hope

  had such sparse feathers

  to fly upon!

  In the dark air
/>
  of Armageddon

  we hear the beating

  of iridescent black reptilian wings.

  . . .

  Angels? Daemons?

  How little we care

  as long

  as someone

  comes!

  THANK-YOU NOTE FOR A GRECIAN URN

  Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard