And Short the Season 3/11 – 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

THE REVISIONIST DREAM

Well, she didn’t kill herself that afternoon.
it was a mild day in October, we sat outside
over sandwiches. She said she had begun

to practice yoga, take piano lessons
rewrite her drama rife with lust and pride
and so she didn’t kill herself that afternoon,

hugged me, went home, cranked the garage doors open,
scuffed through the garish leaves, orange and red
that brought on grief. She said she had begun

to translate Akhmatova, her handsome Russian
piano teacher rendering the word-for-word
so she didn’t kill herself that afternoon.

She cooked for him, made quiche and coq au vin.
He stood the Czerny method on its head
while her fingers flew. She said she had begun

accelerandos, Julia Child, and some
expand-a-lung deep breaths to do in bed
so she didn’t kill herself that afternoon.
e ate our sandwiches. The dream blew up at dawn

IL SOGNO REVISIONISTA

Beh, lei non si uccise quel pomeriggio.
Era un mite giorno d’ottobre, sedevamo fuori
con i panini. Disse di avere cominciato

a praticare yoga, prendere lezioni di piano,
riscrivere il suo spettacolo pieno di lussuria e di orgoglio
e così non si uccise quel pomeriggio,

mi abbracciò, andò a casa, aprì la saracinesca del garage,
si trascinò attraverso le foglie sgargianti, arancioni e rosse,
che le provocarono scoramento. Disse di avere cominciato

a tradurre la Achmatova, il suo affascinante maestro di pianoforte
russo aiutandola parola-per-parola,
non si uccise quel pomeriggio.

Cucinò per lui, preparò quiche e coq au vin.
Lui le ficcò in testa il metodo Czerny
mentre le dita volavano. Disse di avere cominciato

gli accelerando, Julia Child, e qualche
tecnica di respirazione profonda da fare a letto
così non si uccise quel pomeriggio.
Mangiammo i nostri panini. Il sogno si infranse all’alba.