In my January column I promised I would return to the poetry of Marge Piercy. Now I'll tell you why. I had spent a rainy Sunday reading poetry—three volumes that day. The first two I read were by a member of the literary Establishment and were the kind of poetry I generally praise—for controlled metrical form, often with rhyme, understatement, wit, irony, rationality, a tone that is intellectual, genteel, delicately sensitive, precise. And I nodded half the day.

I was left with a throat dry with admiration….

It happened that I had checked out the only available volume of Marge Piercy's poetry from our local library. I had recently read her latest novel, Vida, and was so excited by that book that I wanted to know her poetry better (which I had seen only occasionally, scattered in little magazines). After doing my duty with those other...