June 21, 2014

Maxine Kumin


Ideally, they like to get the hole dug, then lead
the crippled or blind or tottery ancient thing
to the edge and steady him with a final scoop
of grain before he topples, thanks to that one
well-placed bullet.
Last week a pickup truck
pulling a two-horse trailer went off the road
trapping two broken horses alive enough to scream.
No one could find a state trooper willing to use his gun.
The nearest vet was out on a call 20 miles away.
You can imagine the rest.
So I said to her, Broody
every night when I checked for water and hay
and a decent layer of bedding, Broody
it’s up to you. Stay as long as you like. And when
the thirty-five-year-old blind broodmare died
in her sleep, in her stall, in the night, everyone
agreed it was the perfect ending. But
getting her out wasn’t pretty.
They had
to wrap chains around her hind legs and haul
her body out with the tractor, except she got
wedged in the doorway and by the time they had
pried her loose, her gut had burst and left
a fetid trail across the paddock—
for weeks
the others would stop to curl their upper lips
and sniff, heads raised in the flehmen gesture.
Even from the top of the pasture the herd could see
the backhoe digging and digging.
It was March,
the ground grudgingly yielding frozen chunks.
The men grumbled at working in weather like this
even though they were neighbors, even though
they’d marveled a hundred times how she seemed to find
her way from barn to paddock to the back field
following the sun as it raised its curtain
and following the shadow it left coming down.
Inside her four known walls Broody had gone,
given in with her blind eyes open.

from Rattle #20, Winter 2003

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September 5, 2009

Review by Mike Maggio

by Maxine Kumin

W.W. Norton
500 Fifth Avenue
New York, N.Y. 10110
ISBN 978-0393333145
2007, 96 pp., $13.95

In an interview with the Christian Science Monitor (“For Maxine Kumin, ‘Writing Is My Salvation’”), Maxine Kumin describes her disappointment in Denise Levertov for shifting from her superbly lyrical poetics in favor of writing poems that dealt with political and social issues. Levertov’s poetry at the time, during the late ’60s and early ’70s when the Vietnam war was raging and the Civil Rights Movement was reaching its peak, was beginning to focus on issues of war and social justice. In the interview, Kumin states: “I thought Denise Levertov was wrong to write political poems, that she would lose her lyrical impulse.”

Now, in her latest collection, Still To Mow, Kumin has done what Levertov did back then: she has written poems that speak to the issues of our day, in this case the Iraq War and the travesties, including torture, extraordinary rendition, etc., that have followed in its wake. “I’ve changed my mind,” she says n the same interview of these overtly political poems. “I didn’t write my poems because I wanted to, they were wrung from me. I had to write them.”

Not that Still To Mow is a purely political collection: there are poems about nature, about her dog, Virgil, poems that hark back to her growing up during the depression or that deal with old age and death. All of which are written with the utmost economy, with a lyricism that belies some of the subject matter that Kumin delves into, most of which is previewed in the very first poem, “Mulching,” as if it were written to be an introduction—a lyrical summary of sorts—to the book:

Me in my bugproof netted headpiece kneeling
to spread sodden newspapers between broccolis
corn sprouts, cabbages and four kinds of beans

prostrate before old suicide bombings, starvation,
AIDS, earthquakes, the unforeseen tsunami
front-page photographs of lines of people

In this poem, the very essence of the book—the lyricism, the horror, the shock and the sheer beauty—is condensed, eloquently and succinctly, and the reader is prepared, ever so subtly, for what is still to come or, as the title states, still to mow.

Like Levertov, Kumin writes with ease and clarity, in a verse so pure that the reader feels lifted up to the ethers, even when the poems explore violence and torture. These lines, for example, from “Extraordinary Rendition,” flow so smoothly that they surprise the reader when violence comes into play:

Only the oak and the beech hang onto their leaves
at the end, the oak leaves bruised the color of those
insurgent boys Iraqi policemen captured

purpling their eyes and cheekbones before
lining them up to testify to the Americans
that, no, no, they had not been beaten…

Similarly engaging are these lines from “Please Pay Attention as the Ethics Have Changed,” where the enjambment creates a subtle tension against the easy, conversational rhythms of the poem:

The exact number of ducks, however, is wanting –
this is canned hunting

where you don’t stay to pluck
the feathers, pull the innards out. Fuck

all of that. You don’t do shit
except shoot.

Kumin writes with an understated formalism. She writes in couplets, tercets and quatrains, shaping her poems into stanzas that seem natural and unforced. And while she does not often resort to overt rhyming, her poems are filled with assonance, with echoes and sounds that resonate throughout the collection, beginning with its very title.

It is no accident that Kumin is a Pulitzer prize-winning poet. Through her sixteen books of poetry, she has honed her craft into a carefully defined, precise yet variegated palette that is on full display in Still To Mow.

In her Christian Science Monitor interview, Kumin says that poetry must be both engaging and satisfying to the ear: the subject matter must speak directly to the reader and the underlying music must resonate. “Where,” she asks, “in the line is a gasp?” Still to Mow will keep you gasping from the very moment you open its pages.


Mike Maggio has published fiction, poetry, travel and reviews in Potomac Review, Pleiades, Apalachee Quarterly, The L.A. Weekly, The Washington CityPaper, Gypsy, Pig Iron, DC Poets Against the War and others. He is the author of Your Secret is Safe With Me (Black Bear Publications, 1988), Oranges From Palestine (Mardi Gras Press, 1996) and Sifting Through the Madness (Xlibris, 2001). His newest poetry collection, deMOCKcracy, was published in June, 2007 by Plain View Press. He has an MFA from George Mason University and is currently working on a novel.

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February 17, 2014

Todd Davis


Try telling the boy who’s just had his girlfriend’s name
cut into his arm that there’s slippage between the signifier
and the signified. Or better yet explain to the girl
who watched in the mirror as the tattoo artist stitched
the word for her father’s name (on earth as in heaven)
across her back that words aren’t made of flesh and blood,
that they don’t bite the skin. Language is the animal
we’ve trained to pick up the scent of meaning. It’s why
when the boy hears his father yelling at the door
he sends the dog that he’s kept hungry, that he’s kicked,
then loved, to attack the man, to show him that every word
has a consequence, that language, when used right, hurts.

from Rattle #23, Summer 2005

[download audio]


Todd Davis: “I loved poetry growing up. My dad would read Keats and Wordsworth and Frost to us at the dinner table. But I didn’t think I could write it until I read Maxine Kumin’s ‘The Excrement Poem.’ As the son of a veterinarian, I wasn’t exactly sure what poems were made of, what was acceptable to write about and what wasn’t. Kumin showed me that all my years of cleaning shit from kennel floors was worth something, that poems are part of the body and the body doesn’t know the difference between the sacred and the profane.”

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October 5, 2013

Review by Paul-John RamosHer Husband: Ted Hughes and Syliva Plath - A Marraige

by Diane Middlebrook

Penguin Books
375 Hudson Street
New York, New York 10014
ISBN: 9780142004876
2004, 384 pp., $16.00

Just like the Olympics, presidential elections, and the return of comets, literature goes through a time-cycle where every few years it must revisit the murky case of Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes.  The marriage of these two artistic landmarks and its tragic aftermath—Plath took her own life 50 years ago this February—have drawn levels of interest well off the charts, extending to people who would usually have no interest in belles-lettres.  It seems as if every intelligent person is familiar with them, is willing to lodge an opinion on them, and will go to extreme lengths to back up his or her argument.

The debate over Plath’s suicide at age 30 and the perceived guilt hanging over Hughes until his death in 1998 comprise one of those ages-old arguments that seem to defy the laws of physics: It is always resumed with the same brutal intensity and dropped because fistfights are ready to break out.  This, however, is in a context of the layman, the casual reader.  Things are a bit more civil but also more challenging in the field of professional biography, where researchers of Plath and Hughes are finding their area increasingly crowded.  Anne Stevenson’s Bitter Fame, published in 1989, is thought of by many as the standard-bearer for anything on the life of Plath, despite its controversies.  Ted Hughes, largely because of the issues that have surrounded him and the unavailability of his private papers, lags behind, but was examined in Elaine Feinstein’s Ted Hughes: The Life of a Poet and is discussed whenever matters of Plath come up.

Her Husband: Ted Hughes & Sylvia Plath – A Marriage is Diane Middlebrook’s effort to cover one of the last frontiers in Plath-Hughes scholarship by attempting a balanced view of the two poets’ lives, including that of Hughes in the years after their fallout.  It also bases much of its argument on one of the last remaining forbidden cities, the Hughes archive of 108,000 items that was made available for research at Emory University in Atlanta thirteen years ago.  Middlebrook, who previously wrote a well-regarded bio of Anne Sexton, timed Her Husband perfectly in that it was released during a media outburst caused by the film Sylvia with Gwyneth Paltrow and Daniel Craig.  Middlebrook’s biography fares better than Sylvia, which completely bends history, but the quick turnaround of its publication makes one wonder if this actually kept Her Husband from being a stronger book—or, in fact, a good one.

For a book that aims to rehabilitate Hughes or at least encourage public understanding of him, Her Husband is a strange kind of product that doesn’t really achieve either.  The now-late Middlebrook, a feminist scholar who willingly took on the challenge of biographing a condemned man, seems at pains to avoid dragging Hughes through the mud for another 300 pages.  His literary achievement, never in real doubt, is puffed up through repetition of core beliefs (based on Robert Graves) and often superficial connections between his verse and the shamanistic concepts that filled his thinking.  Middlebrook’s approach to the married couple also poses a built-in dilemma, in that Sylvia Plath, the American who overcame a suicide attempt to win her Fulbright scholarship, always strikes us as the more interesting person.  And indeed, Plath seems ready to jog off with the storyline time after time before Middlebrook decides to push Hughes back into the foreground.

Middlebrook thoroughly researched her subject, which should be a given for any kind of biography on Hughes or Plath to see daylight; her sources are some of the most already-handled in academia.  The one unique aspect of Middlebrook’s findings is the 2 ½ tons of provenance at Emory University that Hughes left for the public eye.  Middlebrook is probably the first scholar to engage in large-scale research with these sources, which include Hughes’s letters, manuscripts, and notes.  The documents shed new light on Hughes the man, though only in spots; part of the problem is that Hughes’s archive was his own carefully-arranged project in which he weighed the impact of every document that would reach outsiders (he offered an Australian scholar, Ann Skea, the job of arranging his collection but about-faced at the last minute).  For all of the papers that are now open to us, they seem to project the image of a henpecked widower that Hughes worked at while still alive.

Where does Plath fit into all of this?  Middlebrook, to her credit, tries to boost Hughes without taking crude shots at Plath and her history of mental illness.  The book is arranged so that Plath and Hughes have their lives followed in alternation and the marriage is portrayed as stormy yet artistically beneficial.  When it comes time to deal with the breakup and Plath’s suicide, however, Middlebrook waffles; we know Plath as being vindictive and having a streak of cruelty, but she gives few convincing examples that the poet was worthy of separation, other than unreasonable flashes of jealousy.  There is also a need to ram home the idea that Plath’s self-annihilation was truly unavoidable, but she fails to do this.  Middlebrook limply ends the pivotal seventh chapter with “Depression killed Sylvia Plath” (And what else could?  The steak she burned a few nights before?).

The main crime of this biography is that I felt even more disgusted with Hughes after finishing than when I started.  Her Husband is another biographical piece on Hughes in which the subject comes out of it badly; only this time it seems Middlebrook—I hope unwittingly—is a co-conspirator in glazing over facts here and completely hiding information there.  Highlights of this include no suggestion of the abortion that his lover Assia Wevill underwent and the recovery she made in Plath’s bed after her death, facts that avail themselves in rival biographies; no mention of the impact, if any, Hughes’s open affair with Jill Barber had on his second wife, Carol Orchard, during the late 1970s; and no defense against the fact that Hughes profited greatly from Plath’s work after that defining moment when he stranded her and their two children to be with Wevill in Spain.

Hughes had the disadvantage of outliving Plath by 35 years and being able to make several moves that were thought unsavory and intensified public criticism.  Hughes’s involvement in his wife’s legacy after 1963 has a vague odor to it and Her Husband is no exception when it moves into this stretch of time.  With Plath out of the picture, we read through the whole sorry affair of Hughes and his sister Olwyn managing her literary estate, including the publication of her letters and journals that Plath might never have imagined to be seen openly.  Hughes was particularly ambitious on this front after being hit with a large tax bill by the English revenue service in the late ’70s, seeing Plath’s archive as a bailout.  Defenders of Hughes have made the argument that marketing archival materials is a regular part of literary commerce; but this explains nothing about the fact that he piled up massive royalties from his wife’s work after leaving her in an isolated state with two children, fully aware of her psychiatric condition.

There is no question that Hughes’s efforts helped to cement the legacy of Plath but both came out of their often fertile relationship completely destroyed.  Had Plath survived, she would most likely be respected instead of world-famous, perhaps in the mold of Adrienne Rich, Louise Glück, or Maxine Kumin, while Anne Sexton would be known to all for “that” suicide.  Hughes remained overshadowed by the marriage’s aftermath and the towering figure that Plath became.  During the ’70s, lubricated by booze, he managed a string of extramarital affairs that sometimes overlapped each other.  In 1984, he accepted the role of Poet Laureate, but only after Philip Larkin turned the offer down.  His considerable literary achievement will remain clouded until at least 2023, when a sealed trunk at Emory University containing the last of his archive will be opened.  Will it be opened to reveal Plath’s final two journals, one of which Hughes said he destroyed and the other of which he claimed was lost, or, perhaps, her second novel that has also mysteriously wandered off?  Anything, at all, to clear his name in public?  Hughes’s stained apparition can only hope.


Paul-John Ramos‘s work has recently appeared in Hobble Creek Review, Atticus Review, Mayday, Hypertext, and Blue Collar Review.  He was also a finalist of the 2008 Black Lawrence Press Poetry Chapbook Competition.

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July 5, 2009

Review by Mary Meriam

by Julie Kane

University of Illinois Press
1325 South Oak Street
Champaign, IL 61820-6903
ISBN 978-0-252-07140-9
2003, 88 pp., $14.95

Once upon a time, there was a powerful ruler called King Booze. Almost all the people were in thrall to King Booze, who was vicious and bloodthirsty and sucked the life out of his people. Only the most brave subjects of King Booze managed to escape his clutches. These brave souls formed little groups, but still, it wasn’t the same as being part of King Booze’s mighty nation. They were lonely.

The loneliness we get at night (more…)

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June 30, 2009

Review by Moira Richards

by Alicia Suskin Ostriker

University of Michigan Press
839 Greene Street
Ann Arbor, MI 48104-3209
ISBN 978-0-472-09696-1
2000, 136 pp., $14.95

I devour books like this. I live across the world from Alicia Ostriker and my education barely touched on poets in the USA–even less on their women poets–so I need engaging and accessible essays like these to learn what more I want to know. Dancing at the Devil’s Party, as the subtitle suggests, comprises six essays that explore aspects of love and politics, the politics of love, and most interesting to me, the politics of gender. The essays look in the main at the works of Walt Whitman, Elizabeth Bishop, Sharon Olds, Maxine Kumin, Lucille Clifton and Allen Ginsberg. I’ll touch on four of them here.

In the opening essay, “Dancing at the Devil’s Party: Some Notes on Politics and Poetry,” Ostriker asks and answers her own questions about poetry and politics and whether or not poetry can change the world we live in. She ends up in the exciting world of feminist writing: (more…)

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February 1, 2009

Once again, here’s how our review process works:  If you’d like to review any of these books or literary journals (or any from the full list), let us know, and we’ll mail it to you.  Write a review of at least 600 words, and if we publish it, we’ll also send you the forthcoming copy or any back issue of Rattle as payment.  Free books and a free magazine, just for doing a bit of service to the good of poetry.

To request any of these books, just write to:

New books in January:

* = chapbook
# = uncorrected proof

Literary Magazines:

  • Seneca Review – 38.2
  • Denver Quarterly – 43.2
  • Chicago Review – 54.3
  • Epoch – 57.3
  • Redactions – 11

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