Eavan Boland

Quarantine

In the worst hour of the worst season of the worst year of a whole people A man set out from the workhouse with his wife. He was walking-they were both walking-north. She was

That the Science of Cartography Is Limited

-and not simply by the fact that this shading of Forest cannot show the fragrance of balsam, The gloom of cypresses, Is what I wish to prove. When you and I were first in

Witness

Here is the city- Its worn-down mountains, Its grass and iron, Its smoky coast Seen from the high roads On the Wicklow side. From Dalkey Island To the North Wall, To the blue distance

Anorexic

Flesh is heretic. My body is a witch. I am burning it. Yes I am torching Ber curves and paps and wiles. They scorch in my self denials. How she meshed my head In

The Black Lace Fan My Mother Gave Me

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

These are outsiders, always. These stars- These iron inklings of an Irish January, Whose light happened Thousands of years before Our pain did; they are, they have always been Outside history. They keep their

My Country in Darkness

After the wolves and before the elms The bardic order ended in Ireland. Only a few remained to continue A dead art in a dying land: This is a man On the road from

The Harbour

This harbour was made by art and force. And called Kingstown and afterwards Dun Laoghaire. And holds the sea behind its barrier Less than five miles from my house. Lord be with us say