Place of refuge, place where we can be ourselves; place we long to escape from, place where we are confronted by absence and loneliness; shabby downtown apartment or idyllic country cottage. Like it or loathe it, home is where we do most of our living.
Home is, of course, many things to many poets. It is Billy Collins''s favourite armchair and Imtiaz Dharker''s ''Living Space'' in the slums of Mumbai. It is Wordsworth''s ''dear Valley'' of Grasmere, and Philip Larkin''s Coventry, that place where nothing so famously happens. It may be somewhere we long for, perhaps unattainably: Ovid and Mahmoud Darwish lament their home countries, Kapka Kassabova seeks ''a house we can never find'', while Jules Supervielle is ''Homesick for the Earth''.
There is an abundance of domestic life. Attend a miserable breakfast chez Jacques Pr-rt; observe Wendy Cope and partner happily ''Being Boring''. Cut to Anna Barbauld''s washing-day, Marilyn Nelson dusting, Buson mending his clothes and F
