Remembering N. Scott Momaday

The Art of Poetry No. 112

The Paris Review Redux: free interviews, stories, poems, and art from the archives of The Paris Review. View this email in your browser Momaday with his mother, Natachee, in Jemez Pueblo, ca. 1952. Courtesy of N. Scott Momaday. "It's best to recognize that you're not going to write many brilliant poems," N. Scott Momaday told David S. Wallace in his Art of Poetry interview. "If just one stands the test of time, that's something that justifies your existence."  We at the Review mourn the loss of N. Scott Momaday, who died last week at the age of eighty-nine. In celebration of his life and work, we're unlocking his Art of Poetry interview from our archive, along with three poems.  INTERVIEW The Art of Poetry No. 112 N. Scott Momaday   INTERVIEWER Is your childhood still a source for your writing? MOMADAY Yes. I try to give my memories a new slant each time I write about them, but sometimes what emerges is pretty much the same. I think of my childhood with great pleasure and longing. Recently Jill and her daughter, Natachee, and I gave a reading at a bookstore in Santa Fe. I had forgotten to bring something to read, nor could I have read anything, because I couldn't see very well—the lighting was poor. When the time came for me to speak, I talked about Jemez and my neighbor Francisco, who had sheep and who would greet me as I passed his corral on the way to school. He was an old man and didn't know any English, but we managed to talk to each other. What I can see now are the wagons and the men going to the fields on the river road. If I rode out on a rainy day and saw the cliffs ascending, and if on the middle cliffs I saw old Francisco with his flock standing deep in the colors and patterns of the plain, it would be all my heart could hold. I recounted that, or tried to, but in the end I burst into tears. Thinking about that boy, that old man, that time, that place, was almost overwhelming because I loved it so much. There are all kinds of things that I remember. I wish I could live them again.   From issue no. 242 (Winter 2022) At the corral in Jemez Pueblo with his horse, Pecos, ca. 1950. Courtesy of N. Scott Momaday. POETRY Concession N. Scott Momaday Believe the sullen sense that sickness made, And broke you in its hands. Believe that death inhabits the mere shade Intimacy demands. From issue no. 99 (Spring 1986) POETRY The Hotel 1829 N. Scott Momaday Dusk—and the shimmer on the sea has quickened and gone still. The large, lithe Hurricane birds soar in circles beyond the bay, and filmy flamboyants stand on the green embankment wavering.   From issue no. 99 (Spring 1986) POETRY Sonnet for a Mottled-Breasted Girl N. Scott Momaday Forgive me, it is what I made of fate In faith and confidence. From issue no. 99 (Spring 1986) At the Petrified Forest National Park in Navajo and Apache counties, ca. 1938. Courtesy of N. Scott Momaday. Copyright © 2024 The Paris Review. All rights reserved. You are receiving this email because you opted in via our website. Our mailing address is: The Paris Review 544 West 27th Street 3rd Floor New York, New York 10001 Add us to your address book Want to change how you receive these emails? You can update your preferences or unsubscribe, if you must.