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Articles by Ruth Stone
TRANSCEND MEDIA SERVICE
Ruth Stone – TRANSCEND Media Service We pop into life the way particles pop in and out of the continuum. We are a seething mass of probability. And probably I love you. The evil of larvae and the evil of stars are a formula for the future. Some bodies can thrust their arms into a flame and be instantly cured of this world, while others sicken. Why think, little brother like the moon, spit out like a broken tooth. “Oh,” groans the world. The outer planets, the fizzing sun, here we come with our luggage.
What Love Comes to: New & Selected Poems
Foreword by: Sharon Olds Paperback Price: $25.00 What Love Comes to: New & Selected Poems quantity Overview A finalist for the 2009 Pulitzer Prize. “Ruth Stone is . . . a pre-eminent American poet.” —Harvard Review Read More Details ISBN-10: 1556593279 ISBN-13: 9781556593277 Publisher: Copper Canyon Press Publish Date: 12/14/2010 Dimensions: 9.00" L, 6.00" W, 1.00" H
Back Draft: Bianca Stone and Ruth Stone
How should one speak of the dead? In hushed tones or a more boisterous register? In either case, the deceased insist on remaining present in our lives. “The past,” writes Emily Dickinson, “is not a package one can lay away.” Poet and visual artist Bianca Stone finds inspiration in that past. In her poetry, most recently her collection The Mobius Strip Club of Grief, she imagines a world in which poets like Dickinson find empowerment through tragic-comic stage performance.
Pastoral
Skip to main content Find and share the perfect poems. I watched my old life go by like television. Slopes of grass whipping against bright blue skies, Objects some called tools And others, totems. A woodpile, a sheepskin, Garlic curing from the rafters; A river’s loose slaps upon slabs of warm rock. “Secret spot” read the caption disseminated Online. Coy copy. Cool Said the flatlanders Whose ranks I’d effectively joined.
Dog Park by Brandon Brown - Poems | Academy of American Poets
I told Alli I really wanted to write a poem called “Dog Park.” In bed she’s like you could make it a New Yorker poem, where you go to a dog park and then have some huge epiphany. And then we have a soft debate as to whether a poem called “Dog Park” needs a dog park in it or not, or even a dog. I dunno.
The Cabbage by Ruth Stone - Poems
Curtains Putting up new curtains, other windows intrude. As though it is that first winter in Cambridge when you and I had just moved in. Now cold borscht alone in a bare kitchen. What does it mean if I say this years later? Listen, last night I am on a crying jag with my landlord, Mr. Tempesta. I sneaked in two cats. He screams, "No pets! No pets!" I become my Aunt Virginia, proud but weak in the head. I remember Anna Magnani. I throw a few books. I shout. He wipes his eyes and opens his hands.
Bianca Stone Reflects On Her Grandmother's Legacy and Editing 'The Essential Ruth Stone'
click to enlarge Courtesy Of Bianca Stone Bianca Stone A conversation with poet Bianca Stone about all of the irons she has in the fire could easily fill an entire newspaper.
"In the Interstices" | Literary Hub
Pleasure me not, for love’s pleasure drained me Deep as an artesian well; The pitiless blood-letter veined me. Long grew the parasite before its fill. Lover, smile the other way, nor ply me with evil Who am surfeited and taste the shadows of gray; Nor sway me with promises to rouse my thirst And fill me with that passion beyond lust; Not romp my body in the wake of the mind’s play. How tired, how enervated, how becalmed I am.
Cry Until You Laugh
Ruth Stone’s love affair with poetry began early. Her mother read Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s work aloud to her when she was a baby, and later paid her a penny for each poem she recited. Stone began composing her own poems when she was only five or six years old.
1941 by Ruth Stone
I wore a large brim hat like the women in the ads. How thin I was: such skin. Yes. It was Indianapolis; a taste of sin. You had a natural Afro; no money for a haircut. We were in the seedy part; the buildings all run-down; the record shop, the jazz impeccable. We moved like the blind, relying on our touch. At the corner coffee shop, after an hour’s play, with our serious game on paper, the waitress asked us to move on. It wasn’t much. Oh mortal love, your bones were beautiful.
In My Unknowing: Vermont’s Poet Laureate Chard deNiord [by Elizabeth Powell]
Walking the lush, wooded trails near my home in northern Vermont, I have come to appreciate the beautiful, sometimes elegiac, liminal spaces between heaven and earth. I have grown to love that fuzzy line between what is and what I cannot know. As a teenager I thought I knew everything. How exhausting that was! Youth mostly believes in sheer will mixed with magic, at least mine did. Sometimes I yearn for that solidarity of mind and opinion, but mostly not.
Academy of American Poets
Ruth Stone was born on June 8, 1915, in Roanoke, Virginia. Her books of poetry include What Love Comes To: New and Selected Poems (Copper Canyon Press, 2008), a finalist for the 2009 Pulitzer Prize; In the Next Galaxy (Copper Canyon Press, 2002), which received the 2002 National Book Award; and Ordinary Words (Paris Press, 1999), which received the National Book Critics Circle Award. Stone is the recipient of the 2002 Wallace Stevens Award.
Ruth Stone
Poet Ruth Stone was born in Roanoke, Virginia, in 1915 and attended the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. She lived in a rural farmhouse in Vermont for much of her life and received widespread recognition relatively late with the publication of Ordinary Words (1999).
Pokeberries
Find and share the perfect poems. I started out in the Virginia mountains with my grandma’s pansy bed and my Aunt Maud’s dandelion wine. We lived on greens and back-fat and biscuits. My Aunt Maud scrubbed right through the linoleum. My daddy was a Northerner who played drums and chewed tobacco and gambled. He married my mama on the rebound. Who would want an ignorant hill girl with red hair? They took a Pullman up to Indianapolis and someone stole my daddy’s wallet.
Creative Compulsive Disorder and the Poet’s Journal
Mary Ruefle quotes Alan Bean (an astronaut from Apollo 12 who paints pictures of the moon) in her essay Poetry and the Moon, saying “Certainly riding a rocket to the moon is the biggest kick you can have, but when I paint I get the same feeling that I got when I flew in space well. Certainly the view isn’t as good, but the best part of life is internal.” With poets there is an undeniable feeling (is it something between joy and compulsiveness cloaking anxiety?) in the internal life.
The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor
She gets off the bus and they kiss. It’s a hard embrace. Then he walks on the balls of his feet like a basketball star, and contorts himself into the driver’s seat of a compact car. She stands outside, averts her face, wipes her lips with the back of her hand as if to erase a smear, or a breath of dust on a photograph album stacked in the future.
The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor
The elms stretched themselves in indolent joy, arching over the street that lay in green shadow under their loose tent. And the roses in Mrs. Mix’s yard pretzeled up her trellis with pink Limoges cabbage blooms like Rubens’ nudes. My lips whispered over the names of things in the meadows, in the orchard, in the woods, where I sometimes stood for long moments listening to some bird telling me of the strangeness of myself; rocked in the sinewy arms of summer.
The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor
My mother, when young, scrubbed laundry in a tub, She and her sisters on an old brick walk Under the apple trees, sweet rub-a-dub. The bees came round their heads, the wrens made talk. Four young ladies each with a rainbow board Honed their knuckles, wrung their wrists to red, Tossed back their braids and wiped their aprons wet. The Jersey calf beyond the back fence roared; And all the soft day, swarms about their pet Buzzed at his big brown eyes and bullish head. Four times they rinsed, they said.
Train Ride by Ruth Stone | The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor
All things come to an end; small calves in Arkansas, the bend of the muddy river. Do all things come to an end? No, they go on forever. They go on forever, the swamp, the vine-choked cypress, the oaks rattling last year's leaves, the thump of the rails, the kite, the still white stilted heron. All things come to an end.
Romance
I went back, as to my relatives. When I arrived, the elms had been shaved. But you were all the same. The buildings, the dry classrooms. I embraced your eyes, your avenues. You were fixed in the same expressions. Your flat voices, your dental work, like your lips, slipping over words already said. Additional agricultural pamphlets; many of you sat in private offices.
The Cabbage by Ruth Stone - Poems
You have rented an apartment. You come to this enclosure with physical relief, your heavy body climbing the stairs in the dark, the hall bulb burned out, the landlord of Greek extraction and possibly a fatalist. In the apartment leaning against one wall, your daughter's painting of a large frilled cabbage against a dark sky with pinpoints of stars.
In the Next Galaxy
Things will be different. No one will lose their sight, their hearing, their gallbladder. It will be all Catskills with brand new wrap-around verandas. The idea of Hitler will not have vibrated yet. While back here, they are still cleaning out pockets of wrinkled Nazis hiding in Argentina. But in the next galaxy, certain planets will have true blue skies and drinking water.
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