Medbh
McGuckian’s Pre-Raphaelite-rich poetry is brocaded; fabric, thread, and stitch
receive equal attention. She opens ‘Painting a Verb Half Golden’, “The horizon
is in danger/ just off the real land grown on.” We might believe horizon is
subject, only it might be verb. Told “thoughts rub against it” we surmise horizon
may be her forehead; she leaves us thinking such thoughts. When Medbh halfway addresses
someone saying she let them “scorch my tongue to living silver / with your
young gold” eroticism makes linguistics physical. Love is verb, time undefined,
it could be the Middle Ages, it could be February.
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