Made in Detroit: Poems
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
A treasure trove of new poems by one of our most sought-after poets: poems that range from descriptions of the Detroit of her childhood to her current life on Cape Cod, from deep appreciations of the natural world to elegies for lost friends and relationships, from a vision of her Jewish heritage to a hard-hitting take on today’s political ironies.
In her trademark style, combining the sublime with the gritty, Marge Piercy describes the night she was born: “the sky burned red / over Detroit and sirens sharpened their knives. / The elms made tents of solace over grimy / streets and alley cats purred me to sleep.” She writes in graphic, unflinching language about the poor, banished now by politicians because they are no longer “real people like corporations.” There are elegies for her peer group of poets, gone now, whose work she cherishes but from whom she cannot help but want more. There are laments for the suicide of dolphins and for her beloved cats, as she remembers “exactly how I loved each.” She continues to celebrate Jewish holidays in compellingly original ways and sings praises of her marriage and the small pleasures of daily life.
This is a stunning collection that will please those who already know Marge Piercy’s work and offer a splendid introduction to it for those who don’t.
hills. As I perched on a sun warmed rock I felt breath on my neck. A half-grown goat looked into my eyes with her knowing yellow gaze, nibbled my collar. I had climbed halfway up a mountain and the sun stuck to my black hair a too heavy helmet. In the distance, small bells jangled. The cry of a circling hawk sliced the air like a scimitar. Bits of marble were jumbled around me, some unknown unnamed ruin that people once had cared enough to build, hauling pale blocks up a steeply
my father’s bolt of temper, acid mockery. She wiped the table and set it. The scent of apple cake My mother cooked as drudgery the same fifteen dishes round and round like a donkey bound to a millstone grinding dust. My mother baked as a dance, the flour falling from the sifter in a rain of fine white pollen. The sugar was sweet snow. The dough beneath her palms was the warm flesh of a baby when they were all hers before their wills sprouted like mushrooms. Cookies she formed in
would pull me into a strangling embrace. I will grow back, it swears, and outlive you. Its vigor outdoes mine. It will succeed. June 15th, 8 p.m. The evening comes slowly over us, over the cardinal and the wren still feeding, over the swallows suddenly swooping to snatch up mosquitoes over the marsh where the green sedge lately has a tawny tinge over two yearlings bending long necks to nibble hillock bushes finally separate from their doe mother. A late hawk is circling against the
pines. This storm seems personal. We crouch under the weight of the laden air, feeling silly to be afraid. Water comes sideways attacking the shingles. The skylight drips. We feel trapped in high surf and buffeted. When the nickel moon finally appears dripping we are as relieved as if an in- truder had threatened us and then walked off with a shrug. Ignorance bigger than the moon A fly is knocking itself senseless against the pane. That is, if a fly’s brain is in its head. Lobsters
rocks, the dark forests where my uncle Zimmy hunted deer on Sundays. A cloud rests white on a mountain’s shoulder: snow’s hand on the back of fall. But soon there will be none The garden is oppressing me with its rich bounty that is so many debts to be paid. Tomatoes I tucked into the ground up to their hips in late April, little miniature trees only so tall as the space from wrist to elbow, now they are shaggy giants that tower over me. They are laden like bizarre Christmas trees