By Nick Laird
An artistic new assortment via the author whom Colm Tóibín referred to as “an guaranteed and exceptional voice in Irish poetry.”
Go Giants, Nick Laird’s lovely 3rd quantity of poetry, is stuffed with "epic ambition." In a suite that’s "easily his such a lot entire to date…[Laird] provides every thing of himself in a poetry as expansive and thought-provoking as his thought of reaction to an infinitely complex universe wishes it to be" (The Guardian). Laird boldly engages with subject matters starting from fatherhood and marriage to mass destruction and the cosmos. cross Giants is a brash, courageous, and wildly innovative new assortment.
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Extra info for Go Giants
Encor les voici Mélodieuses fuir dans le bois éclairci. A u x calices aimés leurs mains sont gracieuses ; U n peu de lune dort sur leurs lèvres pieuses Et leurs bras merveilleux aux gestes endormis Aiment à dénouer sous les myrtes amis Leurs liens fauves et leurs caresses... Mais certaines, Moins captives du rythme et des harpes lointaines, S'en vont d'un pas subtil au lac enseveli Boire des lys l'eau frêle où dort le pur oubli. 24 ALBUM OF EARtY VERSE The Vain Dancers They who are as light as flowers came, Golden figurines and beauties in miniature Irised by a pallid moon....
Twilight is here, At the heart's sighing my image undulates, The flute, against the entombed azure, warbles Longings of the sounding herds as they go their way. But on the mortal chill where a star is lit, Before the mist forms a gradual tomb, Accept this kiss breaking the water's fatal calm! 3i ALBUM DE VERS A N C I E N S L'espoir seul peut suffire à rompre ce cristal. La ride me ravisse au souffle qui m'exile Et que mon souffle anime une flûte gracile Dont le joueur léger me serait indulgent !
I can no longer love only when I am sleeping The grace of her actions mingling with radiance. At night my days come to give back certain looks, After the first era of miserable sleep; When unhappiness itself is diff used in the dark They come back to live me, and to give me eyes. But if their joy breaks out, an echo awakening me Throws up a mere cadaver on my shore of flesh, And my alien laugh leaves hanging in my ear, Like a murmuring sea in the empty shell, A doubt—on the edge of uttermost marvel— Whether I am, or was, whether I sleep or wake?