Maxine Kumin (June 6, 1925 – February 6, 2014) was an American poet and author. She was appointed Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress in 1981–1982.
I didn't write my poems because I wanted to, they were wrung from me. I had to write them.
Meanwhile let us cast one shadow in air and water.
When Sleeping Beauty wakes up, she is almost fifty years old
Here on the drawing board fingers and noses leak from the air brush maggots lie under if i should die before if i should die in the back room stacked up in smooth boxes like soapflakes or tunafish wait the undreamt of.
Nature is a catchment of sorrows.
To write about the monstrous sense of alienation the poet feels in this culture of polarized hatreds is a way of staying sane. With the poem, I reach out to an audience equally at odds with official policy, and I celebrate our mutual humanness in an inhuman world.
Women are not supposed to have uteruses, especially in poems.
Sometimes tradition is a way of keeping going.
Poetry makes nothing happen. It survives in the valley of its saying.
One way of ending the poem is to turn it back on itself, like a serpent with its tail in its mouth.
The time on either side of now stands fast.
To build is to dwell.
God serves the choosy. They know what to want.
The tougher the form the easier it is for me to handle the poem, because the form gives permission to be very gut honest about feelings.
Can it be I am the only Jew residing in Danville, Kentuchy, looking for matzoh in the Safeway and the A & P?
. . . people get confidential at midnight.
Cherish your wilderness.