A Woman Without a Country (eBook, ePUB)
Poems
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A powerful work that examines howeven without country or settled identitya legacy of love can endure. Eavan Boland is considered one of the finest and boldest poets of the last half century by Poetry Review. This stunning new collection, A Woman Without a Country, looks at how we construct one another and how nationhood and history can weave through, reflect, and define the life of an individual. Themes of mother, daughter, and generation echo throughout these extraordinary poems, as they examine howeven without country or settled identitya legacy of love can endure.From Talking to my Daughter...
A powerful work that examines howeven without country or settled identitya legacy of love can endure.
Eavan Boland is considered one of the finest and boldest poets of the last half century by Poetry Review. This stunning new collection, A Woman Without a Country, looks at how we construct one another and how nationhood and history can weave through, reflect, and define the life of an individual. Themes of mother, daughter, and generation echo throughout these extraordinary poems, as they examine howeven without country or settled identitya legacy of love can endure.
From Talking to my Daughter Late at Night
We have a tray, a pot of tea, a scone.
This is the hour
When one thing pours itself into another:
The gable of our house stored in shadow.
A spring planet bending ice
Into an absolute of light.
Your childhood ended years ago. There is
No path back to it.
Eavan Boland is considered one of the finest and boldest poets of the last half century by Poetry Review. This stunning new collection, A Woman Without a Country, looks at how we construct one another and how nationhood and history can weave through, reflect, and define the life of an individual. Themes of mother, daughter, and generation echo throughout these extraordinary poems, as they examine howeven without country or settled identitya legacy of love can endure.
From Talking to my Daughter Late at Night
We have a tray, a pot of tea, a scone.
This is the hour
When one thing pours itself into another:
The gable of our house stored in shadow.
A spring planet bending ice
Into an absolute of light.
Your childhood ended years ago. There is
No path back to it.
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