Ruth Stone
| Ruth Stone | |
|---|---|
Stone in 2009
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| Born |
June 8, 1915 Roanoke, Virginia |
| Died | November 19, 2011 (aged 96) Ripton, Vermont |
| Nationality | American |
| Occupation | Poet, teacher, author |
| Known for | What Love Comes To |
| Awards | 2009 Pulitzer Prize finalist, 2007 Vermont State Poet, 2002 National Book Award, Whiting Award and two Guggenheim Fellowships |
Ruth Stone (June 8, 1915 – November 19, 2011) was an American poet, author, and teacher.
She was born in Roanoke, Virginia. She raised three daughters alone after her husband, professor Walter Stone, committed suicide in 1959. She wrote that her poems are "love poems, all written to a dead man" whose death caused her to "reside in limbo" with her daughters. For twenty years 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 University, and finally settling at Binghamton University. She died at her home in Ripton, Vermont, on November 19, 2011.
Writer Elizabeth Gilbert tells a story about Stone's writing style and inspiration, which she had shared with Gilbert:
As [Stone] was growing up in rural Virginia, she would be out, working in the fields and she would feel and hear a poem coming at her from over the landscape. It was like a thunderous train of air and it would come barrelling down at her over the landscape. And when she felt it coming...cause it would shake the earth under her feet, she knew she had only one thing to do at that point. That was to, in her words, "run like hell" to the house as she would be chased by this poem.
The whole deal was that she had to get to a piece of paper fast enough so that when it thundered through her, she could collect it and grab it on the page. Other times she wouldn't be fast enough, so she would be running and running, and she wouldn't get to the house, and the poem would barrel through her and she would miss it, and it would "continue on across the landscape looking for another poet".
And then there were these times, there were moments where she would almost miss it. She is running to the house and is looking for the paper and the poem passes through her. She grabs a pencil just as it's going through her and she would reach out with her other hand and she would catch it. She would catch the poem by its tail and she would pull it backwards into her body as she was transcribing on the page. In those instances, the poem would come up on the page perfect and intact, but backwards, from the last word to the first.
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