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Begin Again: Collected Poems

Begin Again: Collected Poems

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Begin Again: Collected Poems

3.5/5 (3 valoraciones)
208 página
1 hora
Jul 15, 2014


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Combining Grace Paley's four previous collections and new unpublished work, Begin Again traces the career of this direct, attentive, never predictable poet.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.

Jul 15, 2014

Sobre el autor

Grace Paley, born in the Bronx in 1922, was a renowned writer and activist. Her Collected Stories was a finalist for both the Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Award. Her other collections include Enormous Changes at the Last Minute and Just As I Thought. She died in Vermont on August 22, 2007.

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Begin Again - Grace Paley



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


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


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


No metaphor reinvents the job of the nurture of children

except to muddy or mock.


The job of hunting     of shooting in hunting season     of

standing alone in the woods     of being an Indian


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


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


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

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  • (5/5)
    Couldn't disagree with the previous review more. Paley's collection is a gem. For a relatively modest non-telephone book-sized volume, the breadth of her work astounds. You get New York stuff. Jewish stuff. Russian immigrant vignettes. You get her radical politics, trips to Hanoi, 80s Central America and feminism. You get poems about aging parents. Then aging when it happens to you. You get marriage poems. You get mother poems. You get poems about writing. You get Vermont in fall, with a Paleyesque caveat:"I did not want to be dependent on autumnI wanted to miss it for once"If only Robert Frost had missed a New England autumn for once in his life.In "Reading the Newspapers at the Village Store" she sums up fifty years of post-War U.S. foreign policy with the phrase "mild habitual murderers." Worth the price of admission right there.
  • (2/5)
    I'm afraid poetry was not her strong suit; short story writing was. These poems are certainly accessible, with no obscure literary references or awkward, stilted prose. Unfortunately, most were so lacking in depth and style, that they weren't particularly thought provoking. To me, they lacked that delicious concentration of language that immediately conjurs up images or emotions. Surely, some made me smile, and others contained wise observations, but none made my hit list to share or read again.