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And found and rescued there. Love and blackmail are the gist of it. Ceres and Persephone the names. And the best thing about the legend is I can enter it anywhere. As a child in exile in a city of fogs and strange consonants, I read it first and at first I was an exiled child in the crackling dusk of the underworld, the stars blighted.
Later I walked out in a summer twilight searching for my daughter at bed-time. When she came running I was ready to make any bargain to keep her.
I carried her back past whitebeams and wasps and honey-scented buddleias. But I was Ceres then and I knew winter was in store for every leaf on every tree on that road. Was inescapable for each one we passed. I climb the stairs and stand where I can see my child asleep beside her teen magazines, her can of Coke, her plate of uncut fruit.
How did I forget it? She could have come home and been safe and ended the story and all our heart-broken searching but she reached out a hand and plucked a pomegranate. She put out her hand and pulled down the French sound for apple and the noise of stone and the proof that even in the place of death, at the heart of legend, in the midst of rocks full of unshed tears ready to be diamonds by the time the story was told, a child can be hungry.
I could warn her. There is still a chance. The rain is cold. The road is flint-coloured. The suburb has cars and cable television. The veiled stars are above ground.
It is another world. But what else can a mother give her daughter but such beautiful rifts in time? If I defer the grief I will diminish the gift.
The legend will be hers as well as mine. She will enter it. She will wake up. She will hold the papery flushed skin in her hand. And to her lips. I will say nothing.Best Famous Eavan Boland Poems.
It was the first gift he ever gave her, buying it for five five francs in the Galeries in pre-war Paris. It was stifling. A starless drought made the nights stormy. They stayed in the city for the summer. The met in cafes.
She was always early. Eavan Boland The War Horse • Tends to use simile.
• Boland once said she found simile as an obvious form of comparison, metaphor more sophisticated and subtle. This dry night, nothing unusual About the clip, clop, casual Iron of his shoes as he stamps death Like a mint on the innocent coinage of earth.
This dry night, nothing unusual About the clip, clop, casual Iron of his shoes as he stamps death Like a mint on the innocent coinage of earth.
The horse “stumbles on like a rumour of war” uprooting flowers “like corpses” or “one of the screamless dead”. The indifference of those hearing about violence is perhaps exposed by Boland’s image of the relieved neighbours using “the subterfuge of curtains” and looking out with “distant interest”.
The War Horse!!! This dry night, nothing unusual About the clip, clop, casual Background: Eavan Boland explains her inspiration for this poem: ‘I married in my mid-twenties and went to live in a suburban house at the Boland - The War benjaminpohle.com