Ruth Stone: June 8, 1915 – November 19 2011
 

(If this is in the wrong place, it's all right for a mod to move it.)

I have done a search of Eratosphere without finding any thread commemorating the death of Ruth Stone. Until Carol Trese brought it to my attention, I myself was not aware of her passing. On November 19, I was in-flight, then stranded overnight in an air terminal, and the next few weeks floored by a bad cold and completely out of touch with the real world.

I'd like to belatedly write a few lines about this very fine poet from my home state and my mental universe.

The inside flap of her last collection "What Love Comes To," proclaims her as an American original. I can't quite make up my mind what I think about that tag though I am aware it is meant as a compliment. "An original" is often applied condescendingly; it isn't the same as "an original poetic vision", it's more an outsider caught in an eddy of the mainstream or living in a hut at the foot of Mt. Parnassus, rather than on it-- a Grandma Moses, say, when her paintings went for $2, or Walter Whitman before he became "Walt" to the man-on-the-street.

Ruth Stone's poetry articulates those thoughts that come to (especially) women while washing the windows or peeling the potatoes or hurrying along not to be late for work. They are true, honest and always have a subtext.

A Fowl Life

The churring leghorn has been chopped and bled,
Who was the quickest for the scattered bread.
The ax struck in the stump, her feathers
Float in the ruddy water. The young cock gathers
His ladies round him with an uneasy, faint
and faulty memory of his leghorn saint.
He takes them walking down the orchard row:
the wind lifts up the scattered down like summer snow.

Now whiten her with flour from the bin,
And light the fire and lay the lady in.

Which is no more about a dead leghorn than Stevie Smith's "To a Dead Vole" is about a dead vole.

Her poems aren't "poetic" like Edna's To what purpose spring do you return again. No, they are underhanded as Muriel's Long afterward, Oedipus, old and blinded, walks the roads.

While Sylvia was popping her head in the oven, Ruth Stone was coping: making a living, raising children, doing what had to be done.

Consider Mr Pound's metaphor "for an old bitch gone in the teeth," which tends not to discomfort those discomforted by Ruth Stone's "Certainly Not". If the former is an expression blokes use standing at the bar, the latter is the caustic remark made at a sewing circle as one lady bites off a thread and the others smile in recognition:

Certainly Not

The man across the seat
would cause a farmer to look thoughtful.
There's so much meat.
It flabs under his polo shirt.
His right thigh,
in slate gray pants,
is huge, gorged.
If roasted you could get slices,
enough for thirty or more
at dinner,
and his right hand,
resting at his crotch,
would fill a quart jar
as pig's knuckles,
tender and sweet.
(…)
Poor thing, he says he sleeps around
because his wife is sick.
That's so considerate.
What's marriage
without its little ups and downs?
(…)

Of course it isn't fair to compare one poet to another. The excellent ones have their own voice. Ruth Stone can only be compared to herself.

Her voice is sometimes a storm that unsettles one's thought, sometimes a zephyr that rests in the crevice of the mind.

My kind of gal.

http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/368

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/22332

Poems
http://www.shigeku.org/xlib/lingshidao/waiwen/stone.htm

Obituaries:

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/24/ar...pagewanted=all

http://articles.latimes.com/2011/nov...stone-20111128

http://www.washingtonpost.com/local/...72N_story.html

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/obit...uth-Stone.html

Added in:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ruth_Stone

Thanks for this, Janice. What's also interesting about her is how long her creativity flowed, into extreme old age.

I don't know if it is Levine's piece that you link to in NYT, Janice, as the link requires a log-in. Anyway Levine's piece is here.

Bloodaxe have a piece too.

Duncan

Thanks Duncan for added info.

No, I was linking to the obituary

Ruth Stone, a Poet Celebrated Late in Life, Dies at 96
By WILLIAM GRIMES
Published: November 24, 2011

those are usually unrestricted access. I thought so anyway. I could access it and I don't subscribe.

Susan, you are so right, so right. There is hope in my house tonight. ;)

I've now subscribed to the NYT, Janice, and I found that obit on this link.

Btw, that Bloodaxe piece is pretty good with lots of links &c.

Duncan

Glad you got it sorted out Duncan, Both your and my links work for me. It may be a browser thing. Or sumpin.

I forgot to mention that there is a poetry prize named in her honor.

http://www.hungermtn.org/ruth-stone-poetry-prize/

Thank you, Janice, for reminding us that instant publication isn't every poet's goal, and, most important, for noting Ruth Stone's fine work.

Marcia

Good to see Ruth Stone getting attention here. Thanks, Janice. I know some of her work but not enough.

I hope it's OK to post a personal reminiscence here (if not, a Moderator can delete this). When I was still very new to poetry in 1996 and looking for guidance and inspiration, I found the Feminist Women Writers Workshop in the Finger Lakes (NY), and the special guest that year was Ruth Stone. It was a small conference (about 50 women), and past guests of Ruth's caliber tended to swoop in and out -- do their reading, lead a class, be feted and leave. Not Ruth. She spent the whole week with us -- lived with us, dined with us, workshopped with us, met with us individually for 30 minutes each and then in small groups, read to us and mentored us. I've yet to have another experience like it. She was generous beyond anything I could imagine.

She celebrated her 80th birthday that week, and she had the energy of a woman half her age. She was fierce, and she was fearless. She worried about money, how she'd live and pay her heating bills, but she never let it defeat her. She never forgave her husband for committing suicide, and she advised all of us to never depend on a man. Make a life for yourself, she would say, and enjoy men and be with them if that's your thing, but don't make them your life. She was still haunted and traumatized by that whole experience, and it seemed to be with her always, though she didn't wallow in it. She'd jump up out of her seat, raise a fist and talk about going forward, to never give up.

My poetry was pretty horrendous then, but as bad as it was, she found a couple of things to praise and a long list of things to improve and think about. She was clear, honest and direct in her criticism while being empathetic. She'd put her arm around you and tell you it was a crap poem but that you'd write a better one tomorrow. She was amazing, and it was a joy to me that she lived to see her work acknowledged and respected for the fine, fine work it is.

Marybeth

Thank you for you comments, Marcia, Andrew and not least Marybeth for that wonderful report. It really, really touched me.

To those who are not familiar with Ruth Stone's work, get her collected "What Love Comes To". You won't regret it.

To read her is to love her.