Ruth Stone was an American poet and author of thirteen books of poetry. She received the 2002 National Book Award (for her collection In the Next Galaxy), the 2002 Wallace Stevens Award, the National Book Critics Circle Award, the Eric Mathieu King Award from The Academy of American Poets, a Whiting Award, two Guggenheim Fellowships, the Delmore Schwartz Award, the Cerf Lifetime Achievement Award from the state of Vermont, and the Shelley Memorial Award. In July 2007, she was named poet laureate of Vermont.
After her husband committed suicide in 1959, Stone was forced to raise her three daughters alone as she traveled the US, teaching creative writing at many universities, including the University of Illinois, University of Wisconsin, Indiana University, University of California Davis, Brandeis, and finally settling at State University of New York Binghamton.
She died at her home in Ripton, Vermont, in 2011. She was 96 years old.
I like her. Her poetry moves through so many levels, it's funny, stark, thoughtful, playful, beautiful, heart-stopping. The range is wonderful and I've never actually read another poet who feels so real. No artifice here. She sort of holds it all lightly. I look forward to reading more.
Though I enjoyed Ruth Stone’s humor and playfulness in these poems, there were only a few pieces that really resonated with me. The diction was wonderful. Overall, this collection felt a bit too long. I think Stone has written some solid poetry here, just not poetry for me!
These poems are so unbelievably confident. They're all exactly what they set out to be. I would read a thousand and one more collections by Ruth Stone.
I must retrace my exact steps on the crust, or I will sink knee-deep in snow. Kneeling to dip water from the open center of the brook— between the ridged armies of black trees, a splinter of light along the line of frost. Clear as a printed map, wrinkled skin on a cup of boiled milk— the mountains of the moon, a full disc edging up. Dreading all day to come here for this necessary water, temperature dropping toward zero; under the ice the water’s muscular flow, its insane syllables, is like a human voice. Inside the house, sleep, sleep. I brace myself to lift the weight on either hand. Picking up my full kettle and bucket and fitting my feet inside their frozen tracks, I return under the risen moon, following my shadow.
Winner of the Pushcart Prize and The Eric Mathieu King Award from The Academy of American Poets.
None of the poems in this collection really pulled me in or made me feel anything, they didn't push deeper or talk about anything that I connected with.
from A Comparison: "Love also takes its shape / from climate, / performing miracles of art; / is also ninety per cent of the body, / which cannot live without it; / is used again and again, / and workhorse of the world; / and yet, so delicate."
from Other: "His face looks disappointed, / his lips scornful, their shape / translated in terms of my life; / my own life - that dark / slippery strip of him."
It's a decent collection. 86 poems spread over 115 pages. A lot of it wasn't for me, though that is more due to personal preference than talent level.
A few pieces stood out to me:
"Flash" - about the poetry factory "The Real Southwest by Greyhound" - an Immigration Service checkpoint "Coffee and Sweet Rolls" - an affair during World War II "Medium for Stasis" - a story about the people in a painting
I just reread these fine poems. Sometimes my tiny brain does not absorb the words and the meaning the first time through. I will read again and again and add Ruth to my shortlist of favorite poets, Ted Kooser, Mary Oliver, and now I add the purity of Ruth Stone's work.