Imelda Maguire is one of my favourite poets. She writes eloquently about themes which are, all at once, local, personal and universal. There is a humanity in Maguire’s poetry whose themes range from family to nature to spirituality and transcendence. Across all three collections I am particularly taken with her poems about her late parents. In Sundays, for example, she recalls:
[…] my father’s Sundays, / I see him in his / black leather chair, / after the football / or hurling is done, / with his music on: / hands waving / in the air, as he conducts.
Imelda Maguire never strays into the trap of nostalgia. She conjures up the past in a Proustian fashion, and achieves this by capturing the sights, smells and sounds associated with memories. I wholeheartedly commend this beautiful collection of 48 Fragments to you.
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