By Grace Paley
The accrued poems--some by no means formerly published--of considered one of our best-loved, most beneficial authors.
Combining Grace Paley's 4 prior collections and new unpublished work, start back traces the profession of this direct, attentive, by no means predictable poet. no matter if she describes the vicissitudes and pleasures of lifestyles in big apple urban or the not easy fantastic thing about her adoptive rural Vermont, even if she celebrates the advantages of friendship or protests opposed to social injustice, her poems brim with the compassion and hard strong humor that experience made her tales and essays well-known.
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Extra info for Begin Again: Collected Poems
Pale green licks of light pulsed and faded across it. Living lights. Their fires lobbed over, higher, higher, then died out in blackness. At times the whole sky was ringed in shooting points and puckers of light gathering and falling, pulsing, fading, rhythmical as breathing. All of a piece. As if the sky were a pat tern of nerves and our thought and memories traveled across it. As if the sky were one gigantic memory for us all. Or a dance hall. And all the world’s wandering souls were dancing there.
For she was the definite most-hard trial to anyone’s endurance, even when they started out with veils of wretched love upon their eyes. I was that girl who thought the black hem of her garment would help me rise. Veils of love which was only hate petrified by longing— that was me. I was like those bush Indians who stole the holy black hat of a Jesuit and swallowed little scraps of it to cure their fevers. But the hat itself carried smallpox and was kill ing them with belief. Veils of faith! I had this confidence in Leopolda.
King hardly noticed my weight. He pushed her lower. So I had no choice then. I jumped on his back and bit his ear. My teeth met and blood filled my mouth. He reeled backward, bucking me off, and I flew across the room, hit the refrigerator solidly, and got back on my feet. His hands were cocked in boxer’s fists. He was deciding who to hit first, I thought, me or Lipsha. I glanced around. I was alone. I stared back at King, scared for the first time. Then the fear left and I was mad, just mad, at Lipsha, at King, at Lynette, at June.