Tag Archives: poetry


To a Poet I Might Have Known

(dedicated to Anne Sexton)


On the inside of my elbow

lies a dead woman’s name.

I wrote it there so she might live in my blood,

tap me out my poem;

a gut-rush confessional.

Do good girls have more fun?

What’s a bad girl?


Is there an irony to names?

My father, a Graves, will never lie in one.

I don’t want to either.

Give my body wings to fold back into me,

collapse in my infinitesimal bits,

be the ocean.

I’m a pisces mermaid

looking for her pearls.


Let your arms embrace me

limitless voyager.

Be in me like light.

Shine in the wet ink

right before the paper knows

I’m there.


Upcoming Events!

For those of you in the Central VT region there will be an erotic/romantic poetry slam happening at the Tulsi Tea Room in Montpelier on Valentines day starting at 7pm (6pm for cupcake decorating with the kiddos).  What better way to celebrate the love holiday than with some aphrodesiac cacao concoctions and sultry poetry? 


Also on the horizon is the second edition of WordCraft!  A monthly wandering poetry and hip hop celebration that will be sprouting up in Hardwick VT February 21st from 8-10pm at the open space 2nd floor of the Hardwick Inn 4 South Main Street, Hardwick, Vermont. 


Hope to see you there! 

Maxine Kumin

I just heard the news that one of my favorite poets has passed.  I remember finding an anthology of her poetry in the library when I was in 7th grade, and I devoured it whole, but this poem of hers was the one that struck me most and the one I still go back and read over and over again so I thought I would share it as a way to remember and honor her legacy and her life.  Thanks Maxine. 


We Are


Love, we are a small pond.

In us yellow frogs take the sun.

Their legs hang down. Their thighs open

like the legs of the littlest children.

On our skin waterbugs suggest incision

but leave no marks of their strokes.

Touching is like that. And what touch evokes.


Just here the blackest berries fatten

over the pond of our being.

It is a rich month for putting up weeds.

They jut like the jaws of Hapsburg kings.

Tomorrow they will drop their blood

as the milkweed bursts its cotton

leaving dry thorns and tight seeds.


Meanwhile even knowing

that time comes down to shut the door

-headstrong, righteous, time hard at the bone

with ice and one thing more-

we teem, we overgrow, The shelf

is tropic still. Even knowing

that none of us can catch up with himself


we are making a run

for it. Love, we are making a run.

                     – Maxine Kumin (1925-2014)

Sometimes I grieve that I am a woman. 


When I watch two men being soft together:

their ferocity and bravery

their unfurling nakedness,

the sting comes into my eyes

as though I am remembering something I’ve lost;


I can taste its residual linger on my tongue

so I swipe it over my teeth

and across the roof of my mouth

to have its flavor

for just a moment longer

before it dissipates. 


I am a woman. 

Not just within the slope and weight of my birth-given body

but inside of my self-chosen interests,

fitting the mold

even as I slop over the sides of it. 

But there’s a voice, small, behind my heart

in the blackred caverns of my chest

that has a name that isn’t my own,

and beats its fists against the strange cushiony feeling of my flesh

and wishes to know itself

within firmness and fur

I do not possess. 


When I was 13 and my father had died

 – though do not try to blame this duality on loss –

I went through his closet,

lamenting that, even being so much smaller than him

his jeans wouldn’t fit over the width of my thighs

and the curve of my pubescent ass,

so I took his shirts

and scissors to my hair

and even with the early onset of breasts busting out

(no matter what I did to try and hold them back)

I was mistaken twice that year for a boy,

got called a dyke

despite my boyfriend. 


Perhaps they could smell it on me –

the other person lurking inside of my flesh,

seducing the beautiful gay boy

who loved me

but not my gender. 


You could try and say that maybe I was influenced

by the gossiping guesses of family

while I was in gestation –

all proclaiming that I Must be born a boy,

too many girls had already been born in the family,

It was time.

Perhaps in my mother’s womb,

through the sloshing

I heard them choosing names:

Forest, Hunter, Gabriel,

but it was too late.


I must have had a choice, at some point, to have taken it a step further,

to have rebelled even more loudly against the feminine,

but it comes in waves,

I put on heels and lipstick,

I paint my nails and devour fashion magazines,

gyrating in the club like a goddess on fire. 


I feel the power surge in my womb

and the aching weight of my breasts. 

I play the part of the seductress and the kitten.


And still,

in the dark,

when a man has had too much to drink

or thinks he can rest for a moment

inside of my safety

the predator emerges;

not some BDSM bitch with whips and leather bustier,

but flared nostrils and manhands

grabbing hold of his hipbones from behind

and scorched breath against his ears

whispering nothing,

telling him everything. 



Another upcoming poetry event!  On Valentine’s Day, Friday the 14th of February at the Tulsi Tea Room in Montpelier, VT we will be holding an erotic/romantic poetry reading!  More details to come 🙂 



Tune in at 1pm EST to hear me reading some poetry on WVEW 107.7 Brattleboro VT’s community radio station! 

Another Slam!

Another Slam!

Tomorrow (Friday the 31st) myself and a handful of poets will be hosting a slam at the Plainfield Community Center in Vermont starting at 6:30pm. The Everybody Slam is what we hope will be a monthly event where established and aspiring poets of all ages and experience levels can come together to write and perform poetry! If you’re in the area – come check it out!