The collected poems--some never previously published--of one of our best-loved, most respected authors.
Combining Grace Paley's four previous collections and new unpublished work, Begin Again traces the career of this direct, attentive, never predictable poet. Whether she describes the vicissitudes and pleasures of life in New York City or the hard beauty of her adoptive rural Vermont, whether she celebrates the blessings of friendship or protests against social injustice, her poems brim with the compassion and tough good humor that have made her stories and essays famous.
The collected poems--some never previously published--of one of our best-loved, most respected authors.
Combining Grace Paley's four previous collections and new unpublished work, Begin Again traces the career of this direct, attentive, never predictable poet. Whether she describes the vicissitudes and pleasures of life in New York City or the hard beauty of her adoptive rural Vermont, whether she celebrates the blessings of friendship or protests against social injustice, her poems brim with the compassion and tough good humor that have made her stories and essays famous.
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Overview
The collected poems--some never previously published--of one of our best-loved, most respected authors.
Combining Grace Paley's four previous collections and new unpublished work, Begin Again traces the career of this direct, attentive, never predictable poet. Whether she describes the vicissitudes and pleasures of life in New York City or the hard beauty of her adoptive rural Vermont, whether she celebrates the blessings of friendship or protests against social injustice, her poems brim with the compassion and tough good humor that have made her stories and essays famous.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781466875807 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Farrar, Straus and Giroux |
| Publication date: | 08/06/2024 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 177 |
| File size: | 865 KB |
About the Author
Grace Paley's Collected Stories (FSG, 1994) was a finalist for the 1994 National Book Award. She lives in Vermont.
Read an Excerpt
Begin Again
Collected Poems
By Grace Paley
Farrar, Straus and Giroux
Copyright © 2001 Grace PaleyAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-7580-7
CHAPTER 1
A woman invented fire and called it
the wheel
Was it because the sun is round
I saw the round sun bleeding to sky
And fire rolls across the field
from forest to treetop
It leaps like a bike with a wild boy riding it
oh she said
see the orange wheel of heat
light that took me from the
window of my mother's home
to home in the evening
Stanzas: Old Age and the Conventions of Retirement Have Driven
My Friends from the Work They Love
1
When she was young she wanted
to sing in a bank
a song about money
the lyrics of gold
was her song
she dressed for it
2
She did good. She stood up like a
planted flower among yellow weeds
turning to please the sun
they were all shiny
it was known she was planted
3
No metaphor reinvents the job of the nurture of children
except to muddy or mock.
4
The job of hunting of shooting in hunting season of
standing alone in the woods of being an Indian
5
The municipal center
the morning of anger
the centrifugal dream
her voice flung out on plates of rage
then they were put in a paper sack
she was sent to the china closet
and never came back
6
Every day he went out, forsaking
wife and child
with his black bag he accompanied
the needle of pain as it
sewed our lives to death
7
One day at work he cried
I am in my full powers
suddenly he was blind
when slabs of time and aperture returned
dear friend we asked
what do you see
he said I only see what has been
seen already
One day when I was a child long ago
Mr. Long Ago spoke up in school
He said
Oh children you must roll your r's
no no not on your tongue little girl
IN YOUR THROAT
there is nothing so beautiful as r rolled in the throat of a French
woman
no woman more beautiful
he said looking back
back
at beauty
Drowning (I)
If I were in the middle of the Atlantic
drowning far from home
I would look up at the sky
veil of my hiding life
and say:
goodbye
then I would sink
the second time I'd come up I'd say
these are the willful waves of the watery sea
which is drowning me
then I would sink
the third time I'd come up it would be my last
my arms reaching
my knees falling
I'd cry oh oh
first friend of my thinking head
dear flesh
farewell
Drowning (II)
This is how come I am drowned:
First the sun shone on me
Then the wind blew over me
Then the sand polished me
Then the sea touched me
Then the tide came
Life
Some people set themselves tasks
other people say do anything only live
still others say
oh oh I will never forget you event of my first life
Right Now
The women let the tide go out
which will return which will return
the sand the salt the fat drowned babies
The men ran furiously
along the banks of the estuary
screaming
Come back you fucking sea
right now
right now
A Poem about Storytelling
The artist comes next
she tells the story of the stories
The first person may be the child who
says Listen! Guess what happened!
The important listener is the mother
The mother says What?
The first person can be the neighbor
She says Today my son told me Goodbye
I said Really? Who are you? You
didn't even say hello yet The listener
is probably her friend She remembers
Well wasn't he always like that as a small boy
I mean The neighbor says That's not
true You're absolutely wrong He was like a
motorcycle a little horse every now
and then at rest a flower
The first person is often the lover who
says I never knew anyone like you
The listener is the beloved She whispers
Who? Me?
The first person is the giver of testimony
He rises and tells I lived in that village
My father shouted He returned from the fields
I was too small My father cried out
Why don't you grow up and help me My mother said
Help him you're eight years old it's time
The listeners say Oh! it was just
like that I remember
The giver of testimony rises and tells
I lived in the hut behind the barn
The padrone the manager the master came
to me I can take you whenever I want
he said Now you're old enough The right
age is twelve he said The giver of testimony
rises She looks into her village She
looks into the next village Where
are the listeners
The artist comes next She waits for
the listeners too What if they're all dead or
deafened by grief or in prison Then
there's no way out of it She will listen
It's her work She will be the listener
in the story of the stories
A Warning
One day I forgot Jerusalem and my right arm is withered
My right arm, my moving arm, my rising and falling arm
my loving arm
Is withered
And my left eye, the blinker and winker is plucked out
It hangs by six threads of endless remembering.
Because I forgot Jerusalem
And wherever I go, I am known, I am recognized at once. I am
perceived by strangers.
Because on one day, only one day I forgot Jerusalem.
Jews everywhere, Jews, old deaths of the north and south
kingdoms,
Poor Jews in the ghetto walls built by the noble Slav,
Jew princes
In Amsterdam who live in diamond houses that shine like window
panes
Listen to me. Wherever you go, keep the nation of that city
in mind
For I forgot her and now I am blind and crippled.
Even my lover a Christian with pale eyes and the barbarian's
foreskin
has left me.
Alive
The veins that stand on the back of my sunburned hand
are something like the branched veins on the flat tan
shore of the bay
Out of these, when the tide tugs
salt sea runs back
into the rocky basin from which
we came
on the first day specks
in a stranded pool dashed
in high tide alive
on the hot dry land.
At the Battery
I am standing on one foot
at the prow of great Manhattan
leaning forward
projecting a little into the bright harbor
If only a topographer in a helicopter
would pass over my shadow
I might be imposed forever
on the maps of this city
An Arboreal Mystery
On Jane Street in October
I saw three ginkgo trees
the first is naked to the bony branch
the second is a dance of little golden fans
the third is green as green September
20th Street Spring
the wives of the black-sailed seminarians
take their children to walk with green pails
they are light-haired and slim their husbands are studying
passion and service the seminary
is old the baby leaves of the old sycamores are pale green
are river yellow like the high light arms of the sycamore
the seminary is red and soot-darkened
by the soot-making city it is at the side of the city near the
river
it stands aside from the piers and the warehouses and the
longshoremen
it intends to be quiet and dark though sunlight surrounds it
sun lies on the streets and the lawns and the children
of the seminarians play with red hoops in the street in the sun
note to grandparents
the children are healthy
the children are rosy
we take them to the park
we take them to the playground
they swing on the swings
the wind smacks their faces
they jump and are lively
they eat everything
they sleep without crying
they are very smart
each day they grow
you would hardly know them
psalm
their shoes are stuccoed with sawdust and blood
the two young butchers walk singing together on Ninth Avenue
the sun is out because it is the lunch hour
they kick the melting snow and splash into deep puddles
then they embrace one another in the cold air
for water and singing may wash away the blood of the lamb
Mulberry Street
Mulberry Street ends in good works
The Committee for Nonviolent Action begins there
Also St. Barnabas House which shelters abandoned children
And on the corner of Mott Street
Bob Nichols is making a playground
single-handed two mountains an iron tower from which
the cliffs of Houston Street can be observed
a maple glade a ship at sea
War
The boys from St. Bernard's
and the boys from
Our Lady of Pompeii
converge on the corner of Bleecker and Bank
There is a grinding of snowballs
and a creaking of ice
The name of our Lord is invoked
But for such healthy tough warriors
He has other deaths in mind
Sulky
They part
For Danny
My son enters the classroom
There are thirty-two children waiting for him
He dreams that he will teach them to read
His head is full of the letters that words are looking for
Because of his nature
his fingers are flowers
Here is a rose he says look it grew right
into the letter R
They like that idea very much they lean forward
He says now spell garden
They write it correctly in their notebooks maybe
because the word rose is in it
My son is happy
Now spell sky
For this simple word the children
turn their eyes down and away doesn't he know
the city has been quarreling with the sky all of their lives
Well, he says Spell home he's a little frightened
to ask this of them What?
They laugh they can't hear him say
What's so funny? they jump
up out of their seats laughing
My son says hopefully It's three o'clock
but they don't want to leave where will they go?
they want to stay right here in the classroom they probably
want to spell garden again they want
to examine his hand
The Nature of This City
Children walking with their grandmothers
talk foreign languages
that is the nature of this city
and also this country
Talk is cheap but comes in variety
and witnessing dialect
there is a rule for all
and in each sentence a perfect grammar
On the Fourth Floor
The woman on the fourth floor said You slut! don't you
knock on my
door stand up straight be a woman!
The girl said I ain't a slut I didn't have no father
my mother ...
The woman said Stop that neither did I I didn't have
nothing
The girl said I ain't a slut I don't fuck guys
The woman said Who cares about guys you're
disgusting you ain't
a woman
You're dirty look at you you can't keep your eyes open
The boy came to the head of the stairs He hollered Diana
come up
here where's the Tuinals
The girl said I ain't got them
The boy screamed I had sixteen I ate ten I give you four there's
two left someplace
I ain't got them I only got two methadone
Look at you the boy said you hung down to the
ground you ate
them
I didn't she said come with me Eddie
to the East River Drive there's a party I'll say you're my
husband
The boy screamed Get me the two Tuinals
The woman took the girl's hand Go into your house right this
minute pay him no mind
wash up you stink comb your hair straight yourself
ain't you ashamed? Be a woman
Winter Afternoon
Old men and women walk by my window
they're frightened it's icy wintertime
they take small steps they're looking
at their feet they're glad to be
going they hate
the necessity
sometimes the women wear heels why
do they do this the old women's
heads are bent they see their shoes
which are often pointy these shoes
were made for crossed legs in the
evening pointing
sometimes the old men
walk a dog the dog moves too fast
the man stands still the dog stands
still the smells come to the dog
floating from the square earth of the
plane tree from the tires of cars
at rest all this interesting life
and adventure comes to the waiting dog
the man doesn't know this the street
is too icy old women in pointy shoes
and high heels pass him their necks
in fur collars bent their eyes watch
their small slippery feet
Middle-Age Poem
With what joy
I left home to deposit one thousand, one hundred and nineteen
dollars in the bank
I was whistling and skipping
you would think I had a new baby and a new cradle
after so many years
or that my mother had come to visit from Queens, borough of
cemeteries
you would think a lover
was waiting
at the corner of Chemical Trust
and First National
right under the willow oak
with open arms
Bob Visits Friends
Well I can see you now
you are hurrying along the street
head down in order to not miss
any great event on the pavement you are
about to make a visit to somebody's life
Peter and Elka's where the children
will welcome you with bread and strawberries
they fly to a proper distance
nibbling rye crumbs by the healthy ton
sighing in Russian and singing in German
Then you will extricate yourself
from the richness of kitchens and family
and cross town again because it's so early
the summer's first light hot hand
has made you feverish for encounter in air
at least by open window so now the sixth floor
overlooking Bedford Street the open lot
that will not become the Broome Street Expressway
Because of this political victory and the birth
of a child there is a plan being made
in that small apartment
TO BE GOOD AND HAPPY FOREVER
The fact is this can be successful
if it starts late enough in life
On Mother's Day
I went out walking
in the old neighborhood
Look! more trees on the block
forget-me-nots all around them
ivy lantana shining
and geraniums in the window
Twenty years ago
it was believed that the roots of trees
would insert themselves into gas lines
then fall poisoned on houses and children
or tap the city's water pipes starved
for nitrogen obstruct the sewers
In those days in the afternoon I floated
by ferry to Hoboken or Staten Island
then pushed the babies in their carriages
along the river wall observing Manhattan
See Manhattan I cried New York!
even at sunset it doesn't shine
but stands in fire charcoal to the waist
But this Sunday afternoon on Mother's Day
I walked west and came to Hudson Street tricolored flags
were flying over old oak furniture for sale
brass bedsteads copper pots and vases
by the pound from India
Suddenly before my eyes twenty-two transvestites
in joyous parade stuffed pillows
under their lovely gowns
and entered a restaurant
under a sign which said All Pregnant Mothers Free
I watched them place napkins over their bellies
and accept coffee and zabaglione
I am especially open to sadness and hilarity
since my father died as a child
one week ago in this his ninetieth year
Housing
Walking along a street in a neighborhood
where the black trash bags are stacked as neat
as a woodpile in Vermont my lover said to me
oh will we ever live in a district like this
where the artists are growing old in brownstones
and their grandchildren visit them with watercolors
and pastels if we could only find a
condominium or a co-op like the one
on Ninth Street where the tenants themselves
have lovingly laid a mulch of pine branches
among the roses
then I answered her
it is probably too late for sentiment
of that kind we are fated to create
our own community in the borough of
Brooklyn or Staten Island though there are
many who are happy in the little cities
across the river in another state
where we might well establish patterns of
comfort and gently rising affluence
all of which requires of course that the earth
be not blown up or irremediably
poisoned and that you and I remain if not
lovers at least cordial creators of
family and continuity
Having Arrived by Bike at Battery Park
I thought I would
sit down at one of those park department tables
and write a poem honoring
the occasion which is May 25th
Evelyn my best friend's birthday
and Willy Langbauer's birthday
Day! I love you for your delicacy
in appearing after so many years
as an afternoon in Battery Park right
on the curved water
where Manhattan was beached
At once arrows
straight as Broadway were driven
into the great Indian heart
Then we came from the east
seasick and safe the
white tormented people
grew fat in the
blood of that wound
Whistlers
A stranger calling a dog whistled
and I came running though I am not an afghan
or a high-class poodle and not much like a
city boy's dog with a happy wild tail and red eyes
The stranger said Excuse me I was calling my dog not you
Ah I replied to this courteous explanation
Sometimes I whistle too but mostly for fear
of missing the world I am a dog to whistlers
For George (I)
What was left before crumbling
was sweetness in the maple leaf
in our friend George a brilliant
attentive sweetness
in the wild red maple leaf
before winter in our friend
George Dennison before death
For George (II)
The birds everywhere are talking
about my friend George who is dying
What have the birds to do with it?
In their whistling songs they say go south
or else
George they peck at his window in Maine
in the town of Temple
Go south come with us save yourself
there's still time
But he refuses to leave pain has trapped him
Pain keeps him at home
But if he had help? If the children
whom he has after all immortalized in stories
of their joyfulness with horses
if the children could help if Mabel
would help if they stopped listening
to George's pain if they saw the birds
how sure of themselves they are as they wrap up
their northern affairs
and gather their swarming communities to fly
float sail toward long sunlight
south south
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Begin Again by Grace Paley. Copyright © 2001 Grace Paley. Excerpted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
Title Page,Copyright Notice,
Dedication,
I,
A woman invented fire,
Stanzas: Old Age and the Conventions of Retirement Have Driven My Friends from the,
Work They Love,
One day when I was a child,
Drowning (I),
Drowning (II),
Life,
Right Now,
A Poem about Storytelling,
A Warning,
Alive,
At the Battery,
An Arboreal Mystery,
note to grandparents,
psalm,
Mulberry Street,
War,
For Danny,
The Nature of This City,
On the Fourth Floor,
Winter Afternoon,
Middle-Age Poem,
Bob Visits Friends,
On Mother's Day,
Housing,
Having Arrived by Bike at Battery Park,
II,
Whistlers,
For George (I),
For George (II),
Certain Days,
One Day,
The Five-Day Week,
Some Days,
Vengeance,
Family,
Letter,
My Mother: 33 Years Later,
On the Bank Street Pier,
Gift,
No Love,
Words,
Quarrel,
Question,
Old Age Porch,
Fund Appeal,
For My Friend Who Planted a Tree for His Daughter Jane,
Responsibility,
III / THETFORD POEMS,
Fear,
Families,
Goldenrod,
What is this whiteness on the field?,
When the wild strawberry leaves turn,
Then,
In Deepest Summer,
Saint-John's-wort!,
A bee!,
An ant!,
False strawberry is,
September,
The Choir Singing,
IV,
Song Stanzas of Private Luck,
Some Nearly Songs,
The Old Dog's Song,
34th Street Song,
The Sad Children's Song,
Traveler,
Speaker and Speaker,
Quarrel,
Autumn,
South Window,
My Father at 85,
My Father at 89,
One Day I Decided,
In Aix,
Oh,
In France,
I Gave Away That Kid,
Subway Station,
Bridges,
In Hanoi 1969,
Two Villages,
That Country,
Street Corner Dialogue,
Illegal Aliens,
In San Salvador (I),
In San Salvador (II),
Learning from Barbara Deming,
Happiness,
Definition,
Age,
Love,
Time,
The Dance in Jinotega,
People in My Family,
In the Bus,
V,
House: Some Instructions,
VI / BEGIN AGAIN,
The Immigrant Story,
Translation,
Signs,
The Woman Says,
Faces,
It's True,
Tenth Grade,
Suppertime,
The Word Thrum,
My Father Said,
He Wanders,
Four Short Pieces,
The Poet's Occasional Alternative,
One of the Softer Sorrows of Age,
When this old body,
When I Was Asked How I Could Leave Vermont in the Middle of October,
Weather,
In Montpelier, Vermont,
Beef,
NOW,
Is There a Difference Between Men and Women,
Reading the Newspapers at the Village Store,
What If (This Week),
This Life,
Sometimes,
Leaflet,
I See My Friend Everywhere,
A Letter,
For Jan,
Luck,
On the Deck,
For My Daughter,
Therefore,
In This Dream,
Hand-Me-Downs,
Here,
Walking in the Woods,
Also by Grace Paley,
About the Author,
Copyright,
What People are Saying About This
What I love most in Grace Paley's poetry is her unquenchable sense that the artist's life is not somewhere at the margins of community, that a dialogue is necessary between the poet and her people. The North American enterprise has injured this dialogue. Paley's exuberant, heartbreaking, committed poems call it back to health (Adrienne Rich).
Grace Paley . . . is funny and poignant, a writer of great power and great delicacy. She is one of our finest-and most original-poets (Gerald Stern, winner of the 1998 National Book Award for Poetry).