That Said: New and Selected Poems

That Said: New and Selected Poems

By:  Jane Shore

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

Available Resources

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  • Format: eBook

  • ISBN-13/EAN: 9780547687353

  • ISBN-10: 0547687354

  • Pages: 256

  • Price: $9.99

  • Publication Date: 04/24/2012

Jane Shore
Author

Jane Shore

JANE SHORE is the author of many books of poetry, including, A Yes or No Answer and Music Minus One, which was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award. She has won the Juniper Prize and the Lamont Poetry Prize.
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  • excerpts

    Willow

    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.

    Priorities

    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. <...

Available Resources

Related Categories

  • Format: eBook

  • ISBN-13/EAN: 9780547687353

  • ISBN-10: 0547687354

  • Pages: 256

  • Price: $9.99

  • Publication Date: 04/24/2012

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