Join the North Shore Poets’ Forum meeting on Saturday, March 18, 11 a.m., in the Barnet Room of the Beverly Public Library for a happy St. Patrick’s Day (late) and a welcome to Spring (coming soon) gathering. I will be presiding, something I haven’t done in a few years because of taking a Saturday job. I’ve quit that. Many thanks to Jeanette Maes and Roberta Hung for calling you together periodically — until Covid scuttled all sorts of plans. We’ve been free of the constant Covid worry for a while now, so here’s to a great new year of poetry.
I will present a short program on Eavan Boland, 1944-2020, an Irish poet who taught at many universities both in Ireland and the United States. We will then take some time for gentle critiquing of our own poems.
Below is a poem by Boland that I hope you will enjoy. I look forward to seeing you Saturday.
Quarantine
Eavan Boland – 1944-2020
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 sick with famine fever and could not keep up.
He lifted her and put her on his back.
He walked like that west and west and north.
Until at nightfall under freezing stars they arrived.
In the morning they were both found dead.
Of cold. Of hunger. Of the toxins of a whole history.
But her feet were held against his breastbone.
The last heat of his flesh was his last gift to her.
Let no love poem ever come to this threshold.
There is no place here for the inexact
praise of the easy graces and sensuality of the body.
There is only time for this merciless inventory:
Their death together in the winter of 1847.
Also what they suffered. How they lived.
And what there is between a man and woman.
And in which darkness it can best be proved.
From New Collected Poems by Eavan Boland. Copyright © 2008 by Eavan Boland. Reprinted by permission of W.W. Norton. All rights reserved.