Jack and Other New Poems

A soft thump, the collision of nature's realities and a recognition of ageing. Kumin faces the truth that soon there will be a reckoning with the Grim Reaper. So begins the revelatory poetry of a woman dissecting her life, the recollections and reminders that spring to mind in the autumn years. In Magda of Hospice House: "I love my work as a specialist in easement. Death is the thing I know, its catch and gurgle." Those of a certain generation are blessed with such reminiscences, be it yesterday or sixty years ago, each as fresh as the new morning. Perhaps this is the reward of old age, as visions spring complete from the mind, the passing years insignificant. But it is these memories that so endear Kumin's poetry, her incisive observations, without the taint of revision. In The Snarl, the poet reveals a bitter memory: "...one of the clique that had snubbed me down to the bone so that I ate my dry sandwich daily in a stall in the john after Latin class" The New England poet plants her feet squarely on the ground, knows her neighbor's names, takes nothing for granted and grapples daily with the disintegration of ageing bones. She gives no quarter and exposes her own foolish pretensions, bolstered by memories of old yearnings and bittersweet recollections. In sturdy Yankee phrases, Kumin writes of animals, dogs and horses as familiar as lifelong friends, their losses just as deeply mourned. In the title poem, Jack, Kumin writes of a long lost horse: "Oh Jack, tethered in what rough stall alone did you remember that one good winter?" The endless cycle of death and the nature of ritual are familiar topics on a New England farm and Kumin lives each moment of this world, on intimate terms with its comings and goings. The subtle strength of these poems reaffirm Kumin's tenacity and appreciation for the living beings that surround her, their spirits as beloved as friends and family. Certainly, the world intrudes, but not with such great import as to erode the precious rhythms of farm life: "Let them slip through my hands/ weightless as the wind and fugitive as a dream" (Crossing Over). She does not withdraw from the world, but occupies a place where comfort is found and life is undeniable. Luan Gaines/2005.