One poem forward, two poems back

So, I heard today that maybe my thesis prospectus is not good enough yet -- I think they are probably right, I am all over the place, not focused enough, and I didn't really try hard enough in those areas before I submitted it. Can't always fly by the seat of your pants, no matter how smart your pants are.

It's been suggested that I focus on Eavan Boland's poetry, still taking a look at domestic imagery. Does she qualify as an American Poet? She didn't even raise her kids here -- will I let that stop me? What can I find in Boland that will start me up? Here is Poets.org's bio of Boland. It's not a great photo, but it's a start. This is a link to a lovely poem "Pomegranate" about how Boland can find herself in both halves of the Persephone/Ceres myth -- any daughter who is now a mother of a daughter can imagine herself here -- Boland has done it with a Coke can. This is Norton's site, her publisher, and links to her books and other goodies. They also have this photo, which is much better.

Here's a poem, "It's A Woman's World" and criticism of the poem. Maybe I'll be okay in her company. (And because blogspot will not let me put in the line breaks, I do not know why, you have to go to another site to see them -- or better yet, buy the book --)

It's a Woman's World

Our way of life

has hardly changed

since a wheel first

whetted a knife.

Maybe flame

burns more greedily

and wheels are steadier,

but we're the same:

we milestone

our lives

with oversights,

living by the lights

of the loaf left

by the cash register,

the washing powder

paid for and wrapped,

the wash left wet:

like most historic peoples

we are defined

by what we forget

and what we never will be:

star-gazers,

fire-eaters.

It's our alibi

for all time:

as far as history goes

we were never

on the scene of the crime.

When the king's head

gored its basket,

grim harvest,

we were gristing bread

or getting the recipe

for a good soup.

It's still the same:

our windows

moth our children

to the flame

of hearth not history.

And still no page

scores the low music

of our outrage.

Appearances reassure:

that woman there,

craned to

the starry mystery,

is merely getting a breath

of evening air.

While this one here,

her mouth a burning plume -

she's no fire-eater,

just my frosty neighbour

coming home.