“We are in the hands of men whose power and wealth have separated them from the reality of daily life and from the imagination. We are right to be afraid.” – Grace Paley
Sometimes, I am actually glad my father didn’t live to see the current state of the nation and especially of the presidency. He couldn’t stand George Bush, who he considered a privileged little shit, unworthy of the office to which he so easily ascended. If he knew who occupied the highest office in the land now, and did so in 2017 – he’d be dumbfounded. As am I, on alternate days. On the other days, I rage, and do whatever I can to fight the good fight against those who think they are entitled to shit on others, especially women and the poor. All that said, if you don’t know Paley’s work, you might check it out, or at least emulate in whatever way you can her anti-war/greed/racism etc. etc. activism!
Grace Paley, who died in 2007, was a writer, poet, and activist. I have read her poetry and her short stories, and while they are very much of the 20th century, they speak to our time now as all good and great writing does, being both wise and timeless.
From her wiki page: “In an interview given in the year of her death, in May 2007, Paley spoke of the dreams she had for her grandchildren, stating the desire for “a world without militarism and racism and greed—and where women don’t have to fight for their place in the world.”
*All to say that activism has been going on for a millennium, and a need for activism is never ending. And, sometimes, as with the second of Paley’s poems below, it’s also important to take break from activism, writing, pushing, and shoving, taking time out to make (and eat) pie.
Walking in the Woods
That’s when I saw the old maple
a couple of its thick arms cracked
one arm reclining half rotted
into earth
black with the delicious
hospitality of rot to the
littlest creatures
the tree not really dyingliving
less widelygreen head high
above the other leaf-crowded
treesa terrible stretch to sun
just to stay alivebut if you’ve
liked lifeyou do it
The Poet’s Occasional Alternative
I was going to write a poem
I made a pie insteadit took
about the same amount of time
of course the pie was a final
drafta poem would have some
distance to godays and weeks and
much crumpled paper
the pie already had a talking
tumbling audience among small
trucks and a fire engine on
the kitchen floor
everybody will like this pie
it will have apples and cranberries
dried apricots in itmany friends
will saywhy in the world did you
make only one
this does not happen with poems
because of unreportable
sadnesses I decided to
settle this morning for a re-
sponsive eatershipI do not
want to wait a weeka yeara
generation for the right
consumer to come along