That Said: New and Selected Poems

That Said: New and Selected Poems

by Jane Shore

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“Jane Shore is the poet of little ambushes, moments that hold us hostage, moments when we come to life.” — Julia Alvarez

Since Robert Fitzgerald praised Eye Level, Jane Shore’s 1977 Juniper Prize–winning first collection, for its “cool but venturesome eye,” her work has continued to receive the highest accolades and

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“Jane Shore is the poet of little ambushes, moments that hold us hostage, moments when we come to life.” — Julia Alvarez

Since Robert Fitzgerald praised Eye Level, Jane Shore’s 1977 Juniper Prize–winning first collection, for its “cool but venturesome eye,” her work has continued to receive the highest accolades and attention from critics and fellow poets. That Said: New and Selected Poems extends Shore’s lifelong, vivid exploration of memory—her childhood in New Jersey, her Jewish heritage, her adult years in Vermont. Shore’s devotion to her familiar coterie of departed parents, aunts, uncles, and friends passionately subscribes to Sholem Aleichem’s dictum that “eternity resides in the past.”

United States Poet Laureate W. S. Merwin wrote, “Shore’s characters emerge with an etched clarity . . . She performs this summoning with a language of quiet directness, grace and exactness, clear and without affectations.” And while there is no “typical” Jane Shore poem, what unifies them is her bittersweet introspection, elegant restraint, provocative autobiography, and on every page a magnetic readability.

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
In Shore’s first retrospective collection, fortunes and fairy tales converge with real experiences—a daughter growing up, a mother’s death, an aging father, a young classmate killed in an accident—juxtaposing life as imagined against life as it turns out: “It didn’t weep the way a willow should,” the book begins, “Planted all alone in the middle of the field/ by the bachelor who sold our house to us.” Shore reflects on the passage of time—complete with Chinese take-out, Scrabble, and dolls of all kinds (American Girl and otherwise)—through poised ruminations on selfhood. In “The Russian Doll,” Shore writes, “I thought the first, the largest, doll/ contained nothing but herself,/ but I was wrong./ I assumed that she was young/ because I could not read her face./ Is she the oldest in this matriarchy—/ holding within her hollow each daughter’s/ daughter? Or the youngest—// carrying the embryo of the old woman/ she will become?” And at their best, these poems are deliberate, curious, and as unassuming as Bishop’s. Shore does what the best memoirists attempt: in describing one life, she describes the condition of all lives. (Apr.)
Children's Literature - Susan Treadway M.Ed.
Brand new reflections combined with older favorites cover several decades that are proudly grouped into six thematic sections. By sharing poignant memories interwoven with raw stories throughout the prize-winning author's life and a few generations, readers embark on a roller coaster like their own journey. Jewish history provides additional insights for greater perspective just as wide-open windows shed bright light into the lives of family members and friends. Wide ranging emotions cover natural fears, curiosities and observations. Realities are described with flair no matter the topic or time period. Thus, shrewd artistry in free verse transforms the ordinary. Students find numerous aspects discussed openly about relationships, death, traditions, stark experiences, everyday items, treasured conversations, and assorted life lessons. As a lively autobiography, poems achieve a higher level of connection the more they are enjoyed and shared. Clearly then, collected works are an appropriate means for ongoing discussion among youngsters and adults, individuals or groups, since there are plenty of opportunities for profound engagement. Additionally, selected poems are taken from award winning publications. A Yes-Or-No Answer (2008) garnered the 2010 Poets' Prize while Music Minus One (1996) was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award. Eye Level (1977) was awarded the Juniper Prize, and The Minute Hand (1987) won the Academy of American Poets Lamont Prize. Reviewer: Susan Treadway, M.Ed.

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Product Details

Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Publication date:
Product dimensions:
6.00(w) x 9.10(h) x 1.10(d)

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It didn’t weep the way a willow should.
Planted all alone in the middle of the field by the bachelor who sold our house to us,
shoulder height when our daughter was born,
it grew eight feet a year until it blocked the view through the first-, then the second-
story windows, its straggly canopy obstructing our sunrise and moonrise over Max Gray Road.
I gave it the evil eye, hoping lightning would strike it, the way a bolt had split the butternut by the barn. And if leaf blight or crown gall or cankers didn’t kill it, then
I’d gladly pay someone to chop it down.
My daughter said no, she loved that tree,
and my husband agreed. One wet Sunday—
husband napping, daughter at a matinee in town—a wind shear barreled up the hill so loud I glanced up from my mystery the moment the willow leaned, bowed,
and fell over flat on its back, roots and all,
splayed on the ground like Gulliver.
The house shook, just once.
Later, when the sun came out, neighbors came to gawk; they chain-sawed thicker branches, wrapped chains around the trunk,
their backhoe ripped out pieces of stump and root as if extracting a rotten tooth.
I’m not sorry that tree is gone. No one ever sat under it for shade or contemplation.
Yet spring after spring it reliably leafed out.
It was always the last to lose its leaves in fall. It should have died a decade ago for all the grief I gave it, my dirty looks apparently the fuel on which it thrived.
It must have done its weeping in private.
But now I can see the slope of the hill.
Did my wishful thinking cast a spell?
I was the only one on earth who saw it fall.


Sleeping alone in my Madison Avenue
Upper East Side seventeen-by-seventeen fourth-floor walkup one night thirty years ago, I heard people arguing through the plaster and brick wall dividing my brownstone from the one next door.
I’d hardly given my neighbors a second thought except those I’d occasionally see in the hall retrieving mail, struggling up narrow stairs with grocery bags, or leashing their dogs.

I used to amuse myself by matching up faces with the names above the intercom buttons in the vestibule downstairs, but I never stopped for anything more than chitchat,
never thought about the people living in the adjacent building until the night I hear a woman crying loud enough to rouse me,
and a deeper voice, a man’s, whose words
I can’t make out but whose angry bellowing bullies me awake. Perhaps they’re actors

rehearsing a play, or he’s her drama coach and she’s practicing her lines from the scene where the man and the woman fight.
I’m thinking I should dial 911 when—
through the white noise of my hissing radiator—
he shouts, “You’ve got to order your priorities!”
like a therapist on an emergency house call,
which works. She’s whimpering like a dog.
There follows a clearing of the moment’s throat, a sponging of tears, a charged silence,

as if now they’re making love and all before was foreplay. And I’m in bed with them.
How many times have I had to listen—
half attracted, half repelled—to strangers’ thumps and moans in the hotel room next to mine?
Their dramas? And next morning share the same elevator (too bright, too small) to the lobby.
I have nothing to be ashamed of. But I’m feeling that same tongue-tied strangeness I used to feel with a one-night stand the morning after.

Fortune Cookies

My old boyfriend’s fortune cookie read,
Your love life is of interest only to yourself.
Not news to me. A famous writer once showed me the fortune in his wallet—
You must curb your lust for revenge
slapped over his dead mother’s face.

After finishing our Chinese meal at that godforsaken mall,
eight of us crowded around the table,
the white tablecloth sopping up islands of spilled soy sauce and beer,
the waiter brought tea and oranges sliced into eighths and a plate of fortune cookies.

We played our after-dinner game—
each of us saying our line out loud,
the chorus adding its coda:
“You will meet hundreds of people...” “In bed.”
“Every man is a volume if you know how to read him...” “In bed.”
“You have unusual equipment for success...” “In bed.”
And those with more delicate sensibilities,
new to the group, blushed and checked their wristwatches.

We divided up the bill, and split.
A few left their fortunes behind.
The rest slipped those scraps of hope or doom into pockets and pocketbooks to digest later.
Maybe one or two of us got lucky that night and had a long and happy life in bed.
On the ride home, I absent-mindedly rolled my fortune into a tight coil,
the way you roll a joint, and dropped it into my coat pocket,

and found it yesterday—
oh, how many years later—
caught between the stitches of the seam,
like one of those notes wedged into a niche of the Wailing Wall that someday God might read in bed and change a life.

Chatty Cathy

The first time I got my hands on her,
I took off all her clothes—to see exactly where her voice came from.
I pulled the white plastic O-ring knotted to the pull string in her back,
pulled it, gently, as far as it would go,
and Chatty Cathy threw her voice—
not from her closed pretty pink lips but from the open speaker-grille in her chest.
Chatty Cathy was her own ventriloquist!

She said eighteen phrases at random,
chatting up anyone who’d pull her string.
Tell me a story. Will you play with me?
What can we do now? Do you love me?
Did I love her? I loved her so much
I had to be careful not to wear her out.
Even though she always “talked back,”
behavior my parents would have spanked me for,
there wasn’t a naughty bone in her hard little body! When she’d say,
Carry me. Change my dress. Take me with you.
Brush my hair
—she always said Please.
When she’d say, Let’s play school.
Let’s have a party. Let’s play house—
she’d flash me her charming potbelly.

May I have a cookie? she’d sweetly ask,
in that high fake goody-goody voice.
She wasn’t allowed to eat or drink—
it would gunk up the mini record player inside her chest. May I have a cookie?
She’d pester me while I combed her hair and buttoned her dress for a tea party.
I’m hungry—she’d point her index finger at me until
I held a pretend cookie against her lips and poured her another empty cup of tea.
May I have a cookie? May I have a cookie?

Finally, one afternoon I gave her one,
squishing it into the holes of her grille.
After that, sometimes she’d start talking all by herself, a loud deep gargling

that shook her body—limbs akimbo,
skirt inching up—showing her panties with the MADE IN HONG KONG tag still attached. I HURT myself! she cried.
Please carry me. I’m hungry. I’m sleepy.
She awoke with two black marks on her leg and a crack on her back along the seam.
A rash of Chatty Pox dotted her cheeks.
Give me a kiss, she ordered, and I did.
I’d do anything to shut her up.

Where are we going? bratty Chatty Cathy warbled for the last time.
She stopped wanting to play. Stopped saying I love you. Next, laryngitis.
Then a growling sound.
Her O-ring cracked off, the frayed string a strangled loop spooling inside her damaged voice box.
Then she was mute, stiffly propped against my bed pillow like a fancy boudoir doll made only for show.

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