Kim Triedman



Main Street Rag, 2013


“Plum(b), the title of Kim Triedman’s book of poems, invites us into multiplicity and simultaneity. Here for instance is the sense of a plumb line, balanced and straight, essential to any human structure in which the parts need to fit together. At the same time there is another domain to the word: the sense of a plum as ripened fruit of the earth, our desire for it inevitable, instinctive, if not at times wild, then quietly close to wildness. The art of Triedman’s poetry throughout this book is to hold such dual impulses together in a sustained, unresolved, and ultimately creative tension. Such tension from poem to poem allows her to probe the depths of experience and feeling, to plumb them if you will, always with that invaluable, wide-angle trait of the poet’s mind, what Keats called ‘negative capability.’”

– Fred Marchant, author of The Looking House (Graywolf Press, 2009)


“What I love most about these poems is their uncanny range – their ability to be lyrical and almost pastoral one instant, darkly comedic the next. One never gets the feeling that Triedman is just engaging in meaningless acrobatics, though; these poems are sincere as sunrise or a drop of blood, full of intense and shining purpose, and to see through them is like remembering all at once that you have eyes.”

– Michael Meyerhofer, author of Damnatio Memoriae (Brick Road Poetry Press, 2011)


“’Between the past and the future,’ Kim Triedman writes, ‘stands a house.’ And how does she live in the house of her present? ‘With the windows open.’ It takes courage to live open to experience, to a world where things tip, spill, fall, hurtle, circle, sprawl, slide, snake, spill, break, careen, scatter. There is love in this book – erotic love, mother love, love of animals and nature – but it’s not an easy love. One has to work hard to hold together. And Triedman does, relying on unflinching observation and a far-reaching imagination to provide a plumb line to anchor an unknown future.”

– Wendy Mnookin, author of The Moon Makes Its Own Plea (BOA Editions, 2008)


Dinner at Tryst

Let me put on my glasses so I may
savor you: citrus-spray of lines
around the mouth, slow eyes of dough
rising. Even your hands – the sinew,
the flesh, curing, the way they wait
and wait – the butter of your sudden smile.

Let me muddle the soft mint of you;
sup of your custard – the eggs,
the milk.

Still Life with Timber

Empty the pantry of bread, the bottles of wine.
Delete the lines of every song that was sung,
every book that was read. Blow out all of
the candles on all of the cakes for all of
the birthdays. Throw out the baby. Dismantle
the bed.

Never mind–the timbers are still sound
as is the shingling on the roof. The walls
are plumb. In the basement the furnace
still kicks on, throwing off a kind of heat.