Maxine Kumin Poems
|3.||How It Is||1/9/2018|
|4.||In the Absence of Bliss||1/9/2018|
|9.||Whereof the Gift Is Small||1/9/2018|
|10.||Where I Live||1/9/2018|
|11.||Looking Back in My Eighty-First Year||1/9/2018|
|13.||Running Away Together||4/21/2015|
|14.||To Swim, To Believe||6/24/2015|
|15.||Pantoum, With Swan||2/5/2015|
|19.||The Hermit Goes Up Attic||1/20/2003|
|20.||In The Park||1/20/2003|
Comments about Maxine Kumin
And suppose the darlings get to Mantua,
suppose they cheat the crypt, what next? Begin
with him, unshaven. Though not, I grant you, a
displeasing cockerel, there's egg yolk on his chin.
His seedy robe's aflap, he's got the rheum.
Poor dear, the cooking lard has smoked her eye.
Another Montague is in the womb
although the first babe's bottom's not yet dry.
She scrolls a weekly letter to her Nurse
who dares to send a smock through Balthasar,
and once a month, his father posts a purse.
News from Verona? Always news of war.
Such sour years it takes ...
Gassing the woodchucks didn't turn out right.
The knockout bomb from the Feed and Grain Exchange
was featured as merciful, quick at the bone
and the case we had against them was airtight,
both exits shoehorned shut with puddingstone,
but they had a sub-sub-basement out of range.
Next morning they turned up again, no worse
for the cyanide than we for our cigarettes