Did you see the movie "Henry Miller", Penni? The one with Uma Thurman? Anais Nin as portrayed in the movie seemed to me to be a very unhappy person (who had more sexual fun than most of us even have the energy to fantasize about). I thought the moral of the movie, though, was that everyone's life was pretty empty, sad and self-destructive at the core. I thought it was a very well-done movie, however.
That's pretty much what I think about Erica Jong, also. I realize that in the '70's and '80's, women were escaping the yoke of sexual repression, and that excesses almost always occur at the beginning of full rebellion. Still, I bet a lot of young women who were very impressionable and looking for guidelines to the new mores were swept away and ultimately damaged by the concept of the zipless #%&$.
I read Victoria Holt all through middle school, as I recall. All those richly historical eras were much more compelling and glamorous than my boring suburban life. I used to read her in class whenever I could, because school was so boring. I guess that's a pretty big insult to teachers, but I would have gone mad at the slow pace otherwise.
Erica Jong is a pretty good poet. Her poetry is very sexual, but definitely softer than "Fear of Flying" was. Here are a couple of her pomes. This is from "Witches":
Her Broom, or the Ride of
the Witch
My broom
with its tufts of roses
beckoning at the black,
with its crown of thistles,
prickling the sky,
with its carved crescents
winking silverly
at Diana,
with its thick brush
of peacock feathers
sweeping the night,
with its triangle
of glinting fur.
I ride
over the roofs
of doom.
I ride
while he thinks me safe
in our bed.
My forehead
he thinks that scraggly
other broom,
my hips that staff,
my sex that stump
of blackthorn
& of twine.
Ah, I will ride
over the skies-
orange as apricots
slashed red
with pomegranate clouds-
He will think me
safe in our bed.
He will think I fear
such fabulous
flight.
It is his bed I fear!
I will burn the clouds
with my marvelous broom.
I will catch Persephone's
seeds
on my flaming tongue.
Ah-if I burn for this,
how beautiful my ashes-
& how beautiful,
my beautiful, comet-tailed
broom!
Erica is sort of a woman after my own heart, since she named her first book of poetry "Fruits and Vegetables". Here is something from that book:
From Fruits & Vegetables:
I am thinking of the onion again, with its two O mouths,
like the gaping holes in nobody. Of the outer skin, pinkish
brown, peeled to reveal a greenish sphere, bald as a dead
planet, glib as glass, & an odor almost animal. I consider
its ability to draw tears, its capacity for self-scrutiny,
flaying itself away, layer on layer, in search of its heart
which is simply another region of skin, but deeper &
greener. I remember Peer Gynt; I consider its sometimes
double heart. Then I think of despair when the onion
searches its soul & finds only its various skins; & I think
of the dried tuft of roots leading nowhere & the parched
umbilicus, lopped off in the garden. Not self-righteous
like the proletarian potato, nor a siren like the apple. No
show-off like the banana. But a modest, self-effacing
vegetable, questioning, introspective, peeling itself away,
or merely radiating halos like lake ripples. I consider it
the eternal outsider, the middle child, the sad analysand
of the vegetable kingdom. Glorified only in France (other-
wise silent sustainer of soups & stews), unloved for itself
alone-no wonder it draws our tears! Then I think again
how the outer peel resembles paper, how soul & skin
merge into one, how each peeling strips bare a heart
which in turn turns skin...
This post all ties together, somehow. Erica wrote a book about Henry Miller, published in 1993--"The Devil at Large: Erica Jong on Henry Miller". They had the same exuberant, boundless sexuality, although they both thought it was a lot richer and more wonderful than most of us do.
ericajong.com
Okay, one last Erica Jong poem. I like this one because it is about writing, not writing, and the earthy sensuality of being at home. She sure likes onions!!
The Poem Cat
Sometimes the poem
doesn't want to come;
it hides from the poet
like a playful cat
who has run
under the house
& lurks among slugs,
roots, spiders' eyes,
ledge 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
who is afraid of being possessed,
of feeling too much,
of 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 & 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,
immortal 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
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. |
