Ruth Stone

Here’s a poem for a Sunday morning by American poet, author, and teacher Ruth Stone (June 8, 1915 – November 19, 2011), author of thirteen books of poetry, and recipient of many awards and honors, including the 2002 National Book.

Her work is distinguished by an unusual tendency to draw imagery and language from the natural sciences

1941

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. I traced them
with my fingers. Now the light
grows less. You were so angular.
The air darkens with steel
and smoke. The cracked world
about to disintegrate,
In the arms of my total happiness.

--Ruth Stone