A VERY disturbing poem, especially when reading it at 3:30am with a frazzled mind. But I will attempt to wring out an ooze of thought yet. The poem’s tone seems vengeful, as if the speaker has been wronged greatly by the “bitches” she speaks of. It also sounds like it is a feud between the two families because the speaker mentions the “nursery lights” and how they “douse mine.” There is deeper meaning here and I SWEAR I’m trying to find it (Mr. MacKinnon), I’ll have more in a few hours to post I’m sure.
This poem seems to be a daydream more than anything. It is about how the speaker feels when he/she is alone (solitary) and left to their own thoughts and imagines wild things or come across “forbidden” knowledge (flames in the fingers). The tone is animalistic, almost like this is what the speaker wishes he/she could do in actuality instead of just within the confines of his/her mind.”The shrubbery, the shrine” is a rather odd line though. I can’t quite get into what it means. Old mind is slipping me.. No coffee.. Feel free to enlighten me if you feel like helping out.
In Her Own Image
It sounds like the speaker is married, but the passion of the marriage is gone. Whether or not her husband cheated on her isn’t really specified, but she may have cheated on her husband instead. She talks about how the glint in her eye like her wedding ring, but a history she cannot touch, because she is longer apart of it… Might I suggest couple’s therapy?
White Hawthorn in the West…
This poem has a superstitious, dreamy feel to it. Almost as if the speaker is tired of the suburbs and people there, and is seeking comfort in the countryside, but considers the Hawthorn bad luck.
being superstitious myself, I see her reasons not to touch the Hawthorn because those things just become ingrained in you. I liked it, Boland uses fantastic imagery in her poems, which makes them pretty alright for reading.
The poem I got was not at all what I expected. It had a dark tone to it in quotes like
“Myth is the wound we leave in the time we have”
Just an almost depressing, hopeless feel to it. don’t really know what else to say about it except the countryside sounds beautiful.
The Achill woman reminds me of a job I used to have. While it didn’t involve tea towels or anything, it involved physical labor and oftentimes I was left with this sort of feeling at the end of the day. To me the poem has an exhausted feel, or unappreciative even. It seems as though the person back from college can’t understand what she does on a daily basis for her livelyhood, whereas his was always handed to him on a platter.
On the Hunt
For a dam hunting License! Complicated fwc crap. Why can’t the 2nd amendment I love give me the right to take my bow and hunt a hog or two? Frustrating. Anyways. Scoring some great deals in the local shops on hunting camo. trackin’ hogs in a week or two, may post some pictures as well
I’m going to consider this post a systems check. Might as well try and figure this blogging thing while I have to use it. Who knows? Maybe I’ll like it and use it more