Amber
It never mattered that there was once a vast grieving: trees on their hillsides, in their groves, weeping-- through seasons and centuries to the ground-- On this fine September afternoon from which you are absent you once gave me. Reason says this: this resin which now in a sunny atmosphere seem as alive as as though the past could be present and memory itself a chafing at the edges of the seen, a showing off of just how much inside a flawed translucence. Eavan Boland teaches at Stanford University. Her recent books include After Every War: Twentieth-Century Women Poets, a collection of translations from the German; and Against Love Poetry, a book of poems.
What do you think? Discuss this article in Post & Riposte. |
Search
|







