How It Was: Maxine Kumin on Anne Sexton, from Anne Sexton: The Complete Poems
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Tell me, black heart, twelve white lies.
Maxine Kumin, It’s Not You, It’s Me: The Poetry of Breakup; from ‘Tell Me, Black Heart’, ed. Jerry Williams
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He says he's seen a housefly's brain.
The Microscope, Maxine Kumin
From "Reflections on a Gift of Watermelon Pickle... And Other Modern Verse" - compiled by Stephen Dunning, Edward Lueders, and Hugh Smith
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Maxine Kumin
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How It Is (1976) by Maxine Kumin
Trigger warning: mention of suicide
In Episode 113, Rachel brings a poem about loss, specifically her friend, Anne Sexton, who died by suicide.
Rachel: I really love the confessional poets but have been hesitant to talk about them on this show, because again, a lot of dark material.
But Maxine Kumin's poem isn't morose, particularly. Y'know? It's more a recognition of what it's like to be present in this time after you've lost somebody. And in kind of how your connection to them continues, and how... I don't know, how you're forever changed by that. Uh, and I just felt like that poem was so beautiful, and so vivid, to me. Like, I could picture everything; I could picture that blazer.
One thing (and it's probably the thing) that makes me love Rachel's Poetry Corner so much is its wonderful delight by life's simple pleasures; those bigger or smaller things that inevitably cross all of our paths at least once in our lifetimes. That's why The Corner feels so cozy and welcoming, and familiar.
Yet, mixed with all those everyday life occurrences, with all those ordinary experiences we've become so acquainted with, there are also accidents, mistakes, hurting, and leaving, and death. It's painful to recognize that these are also part of our lives, and that they happen every day.
So I really appreciate when Rachel makes the risky decision to bring poems like this one; because, at face value, they could seem out of place, or that they don't fit the "wonderful vibe" we got going on here. But they do, they really do.
It's as if Rachel took the time to remind us, with a lot of care, that "Hey. Life? That's just How It Is."
If you’d like to hear more, you can do so here: Field of Necromancy, from 29:50 - 35:49
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Like those old pear-shaped Russian dolls that open
at the middle to reveal another and another, down
to the pea-sized, irreducible minim,
may we carry our mothers forth in our bellies.
— Maxine Kumin, ‘The Envelope’
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Afterward, the compromise.
Bodies resume their boundaries.
These legs, for instance, mine.
Your arms take you back in.
Spoons of our fingers, lips
admit their ownership.
The bedding yawns, a door
blows aimlessly ajar
and overhead, a plane
singsongs coming down.
Nothing is changed, except
there was a moment when
the wolf, the mongering wolf
who stands outside the self
lay lightly down, and slept.
- “After Love” by Maxine Kumin
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national poetry month, day 4
Together
The water closing
over us and the
going down is all.
Gills are given.
We convert in a
town of broken hulls
and green doubloons.
O you dead pirates
hear us! There is
no salvage. All
you know is the color
of warm caramel. All
is salt. See how
our eyes have migrated
to the uphill side?
Now we are new round
mouths and no spines
letting the water cover.
It happens over
and over, me in
your body and you
in mine.
—Maxine Kumin
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Someone once said that we have art in order not to die of the truth
Maxine Kumin, How It Was
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How It Was: Maxine Kumin on Anne Sexton, from Anne Sexton: The Complete Poems
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Always Sexton explores relentlessly the eternal themes that obsess her: love, loss, madness, the nature of the father-daughter compact, and death — the Death Baby we carry with us from the moment of birth.
Maxine Kumin, from ‘Anne Sexton: The Complete Poems’
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The Microscope
Maxine Kumin
Anton Leeuwenhoek was Dutch.
He sold pincushions, cloth, and such.
The waiting townsfolk fumed and fussed
As Anton's dry goods gathered dust.
He worked, instead of tending store,
At grinding special lenses for
A microscope. Some of the things
He looked at were:
mosquitoes' wings,
the hairs of sheep, the legs of lice,
the skin of people, dogs, and mice;
ox eyes, spiders' spinning gear,
fishes' scales, a little smear
of his own blood,
and best of all,
the unknown, busy, very small
bugs that swim and bump and hop
inside a simple water drop.
Impossible! Most Dutchmen said.
This Anton's crazy in the head.
We ought to ship him off to Spain.
He says he's seen a housefly's brain.
He says the water that we drink
Is full of bugs. He's mad, we think!
They called him dumkopf, which means dope.
That's how we got the microscope.
"Reflections on a Gift of Watermelon Pickle... And Other Modern Verse" - compiled by Stephen Dunning, Edward Lueders, and Hugh Smith
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El sobre
(Maxine Kumin, Estados Unidos, 1925)
Es verdad, Martin Heidegger, como lo has esccrito,
temo parar, aún sabiendo que a la hora
de mi muerte ellas me cargarán para siempre
dentro de ellas, un feto arrestado, aún cuando cargo
los fantasmas de mi madre bajo el ombligo, una nerviosa
pequeña persona andrógina, un milagro
doblado en posición de loto.
Como esas antiguas muñecas rusas en forma de pera
que se abren en medio para revelar otra y otra, abajo
hasta el tamaño de un chícharo, al mínimo irreducible,
podemos nosotras cargar a nuestras madres adelante en nuestras barrigas.
Podemos, llevadas adelante por nuestras hijas, pasear
en el Sobre de la Casi-Infinidad,
la carta cadena vigente por los próximos veinticinco
mil días de sus vidas.
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— from Good Poems for Hard Times edited by Garrison Keillor
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