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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 not enough
& those whom I did not love-
declare myself now for joy
There is pain enough to nourish us everywhere;
it is joy that is scarce…
Unhappiness is cheap,
Childhood is a universal affliction.
I say to hell with the analysts of minus & plus
the life-shrinkers, the diminishers of joy.
I say to hell with anyone
who would suck on misery
like a pacifier
in a toothless mouth.
I say to hell with gloom…
Doom is cheap
If the apocalypse is coming,
let us wait for it in joy…
I resolve myself for joy.
If that resolve means I must live alone,
I accept aloneness.
If the joy house I inhabit must be
a house of my own making,
I accept that making…
No joy-denyer can deny me now.
For what I have is undeniable.
I inhabit my own house,
the house of joy…
The soul is contagious.
One man catches another’s
like the plague;
& and we are all patient spiders
to each other.
If we can spin the joy thread
& also catch it-
If we can be sufficient to ourselves,
we need fear no entangling webs…
How to spin joy out of an empty heart?
The joy-egg germinates even in despair.
Orgasms of gloom convulse the world;
& and the joy-seekers huddle together.
We meet on the pages of books & by beachwood fires,
We meet scrawled blackly in many-folded letters.
We know each other by free & generous hands,
We swing like spiders on each other’s souls.
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