annaocxo

Ireland

“Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.”
― Anton Chekhov

"This Moment" by Evan Boland

April 6, 2020

PROMPT: Pocket Poem

3
‘This Moment’ by Eavan Boland

A neighbourhood.
At dusk.
Things are getting ready
to happen
out of sight.
Stars and moths.
And rinds slanting around fruit.
But not yet.
One tree is black.
One window is yellow as butter.
A woman leans down to catch a child
who has run into her arms
this moment.
Stars rise.
Moths flutter.
Apples sweeten in the dark.

There is just something about this poem that I don’t even know how to put into words. I
just find it so inexplicably beautiful. It always makes something stir in me.

Eavan Boland is an Irish female poet so this poem serves as some strong inspiration for
me, especially when considered in the context of Ireland at the time. Boland seemed to
write because she was told she could not, because the words ‘female’ and ‘poet’ were
in opposition.

This poem transports me. When I close my eyes, I am standing there. It’s my own back
garden. The shadowed tree is where the swing hangs, the illuminated window is the
kitchen near the sink. I recognize it so well.

The absolute beauty and comfort in such a simple description “One window is yellow as
butter” is mesmerizing. I think about it often and see it everywhere. Perhaps not in my
own countryside environment but when I visit the city or nearby village at night. The
yellow is families and homes. The yellow is parents reading bedtime stories to sleepy
children. The yellow is couples sitting on sofas, feet tangling and eyes closing.

I remember how quickly that moment comes, being called inside after playing until the
day suddenly turned to night. In the poem, the whole world slows down, nature holding
its breath until the child and mother embrace. The way “this moment” plays out, the way
it is captured as though it is the most important thing to happen is so beautiful. When
writing and reading, my heart is drawn towards the little moments that mean big things.
The brushing of hands, the locking of eyes, the glimmer of the moon through trees.

Maybe that’s why I love this poem so much. It finds beauty in normality.

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1 Comment
  • Loser

    I like how you turn your discussion of the poem almost into a poem itself!


    9 months ago