And Short the Season 2/11 – Maxine Kumin (Bartoli, Dolci)

“A poet of piercing revelations and arresting imagery, Kumin is unforgettable, indispensable” — New York Times Book Review

“Exquisite pastorals of her New Hampshire farm mix with politics and echoes of past poets, possessing a directness that makes each piece necessary and vital.” — Publishers Weekly

“Filled with joy, sorrow, anger, mortality, politics and horses.” — Tom Lavoie, Shelf Awareness

“Kumin is as graceful and unsparing as ever… One of Kumin’s best aspects as a poet was her regard for words, which she held as precious as any other living thing.” — Michael Andor Brodeur, Boston Globe

“Unlike many of her contemporaries, including Anne Sexton, Kumin knew how to trim the deadness around her, letting the life come through for decades… Short the season, but long the legacy.” — Amber Tamblyn, Bust

From the Pulitzer Prize–winning poet, a stunning collection of poems.

LIBRO II

MURDER

At Sunday supper my father
already in pajamas and slippers
after is deep-sea bath in
the oldfashioned tub on clawfeet
said ruefully – at least I thought
it was rueful –
Well, I murdered this day.

Beached in bed until 7,
he broke his fast with lamb chops
and lolled all morning in his Barcalounger
consuming The New York Times.
In the afternoon in clement weather
he sauntered around his bailiwick.

Six days a week he rose at dawn.
He drove from his shiny white suburb
to South Philadelphia were
he took his rightful place behind
the counter of his pawnshop. At night
he soaked his sore feet
in a fragrant broth of witch hazel.

I want to tell him that I too
murdered this day, I slumped at my desk
over unborn poems adding
a word here, half a line there
but mostly deleting, deleting, deleting
in an ecstasy of failure.

At midday, clement or not
I walked with the dogs up the woods road
to the garden and pond. 
Sometimes a great blue heron
flapped up from his illicit fishing.
Sometimes it rained or snowed.

Back at the desk I worried
another essay the world does not need
on aspect of the variable foot
in the poetry of William
Carlos Williams.
Before I iced my sore foot.

Fellow murderer,
lie back in your worn plush chair.
Ignore the halogen filament
that shines on my scrathch and scribble.
Let us be rueful together.

ASSASSINIO

Al pranzo della domenica mio padre
già in pigiama e ciabatte
dopo il suo bagno sommerso nella
vasca vecchio stile su zampe di leone
ha detto mestamente – almeno, io penso
fosse mestamente –
Beh, ho ammazzato la giornata.

Spiaggiato a letto fino alle 7,
ha rotto il digiuno con costolette d’agnello
e ha ciondolato tutta la mattina sulla sua poltrona a sdraio
consumando il New York Times.
Nel pomeriggio nel tempo clemente
ha gironzolato attorno alla sua giurisdizione.

Sei giorni la settimana si alza all’alba.
Guida dalla sua periferia bianca luccicante
fino a South Philadelphia dove
prende posto dietro
il bancone del suo negozio di pegni. Di notte
tiene a bagnomaria i piedi indolenziti
in un catino odoroso di Hamamelis.

Vorrei dirgli che anch’io
ho ammazzato la giornata, cazzeggiato alla mia scrivania
intorno a poesie non nate aggiungendo
una parola qua, mezzo verso là
ma soprattutto cancellando, cancellando, cancellando
in un’estasi fallimentare.

A mezzogiorno, tempo clemente o meno
ho portato a spasso i cani lungo la strada alberata
al giardino e al laghetto.
A volte un grosso airone cinerino
fugge di scatto dalla sua pesca di frodo.
A volte piove o nevica.

Di nuovo alla scrivania ho travagliato
un altro saggio che il mondo non necessita
sugli aspetti del piede variabile
nella poesia di William
Carlos Williams.
Prima di dormire ho rinfrescato i miei piedi indolenziti.

Compagno assassino,
sdraiati sulla tua logora poltrona di felpa.
Ignora il filamento alogeno
che splende sulle mie bozze e scarabocchi.
Addoloriamoci insieme.