Poetry Forum Areas

Introduce Yourself

New to PoetrySoup? Introduce yourself here. Tell us something about yourself.

Looking for a Poem

Can't find a poem you've read before? Looking for a poem for a special person or an occasion? Ask other member for help.

Writing Poetry

Ways to improve your poetry. Post your techniques, tips, and creative ideas how to write better.

High Critique

For poets who want unrestricted constructive criticism. This is NOT a vanity workshop. If you do not want your poem seriously critiqued, do not post here. Constructive criticism only. PLEASE Only Post One Poem a Day!!!

How do I...?

Ask PoetrySoup Members how to do something or find something on PoetrySoup.

You have an ad blocker! We understand, but...

PoetrySoup is a small privately owned website. Our means of support comes from advertising revenue. We want to keep PoetrySoup alive, make it better, and keep it free. Please support us by disabling your ad blocker on PoetrySoup. See how to enable ads while keeping your ad blocker active. Also, did you know you can become a PoetrySoup Lifetime Premium Member and block ads forever...while getting many more great features. Take a look! Thank you!

The Black Lace Fan My Mother Gave Me

 It was the first gift he ever gave her,
buying it for five five francs in the Galeries
in pre-war Paris.
It was stifling.
A starless drought made the nights stormy.
They stayed in the city for the summer.
The met in cafes.
She was always early.
He was late.
That evening he was later.
They wrapped the fan.
He looked at his watch.
She looked down the Boulevard des Capucines.
She ordered more coffee.
She stood up.
The streets were emptying.
The heat was killing.
She thought the distance smelled of rain and lightning.
These are wild roses, appliqued on silk by hand, darkly picked, stitched boldly, quickly.
The rest is tortoiseshell and has the reticent clear patience of its element.
It is a worn-out, underwater bullion and it keeps, even now, an inference of its violation.
The lace is overcast as if the weather it opened for and offset had entered it.
The past is an empty cafe terrace.
An airless dusk before thunder.
A man running.
And no way to know what happened then— none at all—unless ,of course, you improvise: The blackbird on this first sultry morning, in summer, finding buds, worms, fruit, feels the heat.
Suddenly she puts out her wing— the whole, full, flirtatious span of it.

Poem by
Biography | Poems | Best Poems | Short Poems | Quotes | Email Poem - The Black Lace Fan My Mother Gave MeEmail Poem | Create an image from this poem

Poems are below...

Top Eavan Boland Poems

Analysis and Comments on The Black Lace Fan My Mother Gave Me

Provide your analysis, explanation, meaning, interpretation, and comments on the poem The Black Lace Fan My Mother Gave Me here.