By Maxine Kumin
"Kumin writes ... with the transparent gaze of a journalist and the ire of an activist.... jam-packed with love."―Christian technology Monitor
the following Maxine Kumin's signature nature poems are shaken up and invigorated through the darker, human realities. either "delicate and robust" (Library Journal), she faces with equanimity the disappointments and joys of sixty years of marriage―ending with the unstated query of "Which people will move down first."
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Additional resources for Still to Mow: Poems
He says he could have sat the place the steamship docked until eventually the final of the pursers decamped, and that i rushed again littering the runway with carbon paper. . . . Why didn’t i'm going? It was once fated. Marriage dizzied us. give up hand, flesh opposed to flesh for the ultimate haul, we tugged our lifeline via limestone and sand, lover and long-leggèd lady. the surface Agitator That iciness of ’42, a Radcliffe freshman, I racketed to the top of the subway line with 3 different classmates at 6 A. M. the place a well-bruised Union truck carried us off to crouch on the Fore River Shipyard gates, smitten with zeal to arrange for the reason. on either side, shivering, we leafletted employees coming off the graveyard shift swinging lunch buckets, lights up their coughs, and the day ones getting in, swigging espresso dregs. We obtained our asses pinched and phlegmy curses spat. a few whispered atta woman. so much known as us soiled Reds. For twenty mins we chanted CIO as clots of girls with grease-streaked faces who earned one-third below males for lob- bing red-hot rivets 8 hours at the activity punched out and drifted slowly previous us, a part of the seventeen-thousand wartime strength. After the big gates swung close, the boss— Irish, profane, longtime Union vet— acquired us breakfast at a railway diner the place we scarfed down bacon, biscuits and a tower of pancakes swimming in Karo syrup, a middle-class adolescent’s most interesting hour. after which an agent from the FBI visited my father, 500 miles south: your daughter is consorting with recognized Communists. My father’s voice arrowed long-distance, unstoppable: hand over or depart tuition. finish of name. My father’s daughter, I rose to the chance. I’d get a live-in activity, a scholarship, wooden for operating ladies, write the script for Ralph the Foreman, paunchy villain, famous person of the Union paper’s sketch, at rallies sing There as soon as was once a union maid, I dreamed I observed Joe Hill final evening, and Debout! les damnés de l. a. terre! the 1st verse no less than, of The Internationale. Surrounded, I driven again the dread he’d planted, the vine referred to as Communist that spiraled secretly above my head. What approximately this overseas Soviet? a greater global is within the delivery, or was once it? Over Christmas I went hangdog domestic to drain rooms, 3 brothers abroad scuffling with in 3 diverse warfare zones. Letters—called V-mails—came occasionally. My mother’s hair used to be falling out from fear. Too many sons of relatives acquaintances have been long past. Nightly, my father learn the hot York occasions, tuned in to Edward Murrow, H. V. Kaltenborn. He by no means pointed out our fierce standoff back however the reminiscence of it adhered to me, like slime. as soon as again in Radcliffe’s palms, I kept away from my former Marxist pals, pleading a fever, hour tests, time period papers. Pressed, I swore the FBI was once out to get my father. Guilt-slicked, half-believed, I signed off the record, went again to examining Conrad, Joyce and Proust. previous pals for Cleopatra Mathis One second you're caught after which the instant expands. —SAMRAT UPADHYAY whilst in the past in Louisiana— you have been 20, he, sixteen— outraged over his English grade your pupil caught his pistol on your face, you stated I fainted status up yet in a timely fashion got here to and demanded his gun which you gave again to him after type.