In poems about fathers and daughters, men and women, kings and their subjects, the precarious position of women and the plight of Palestinians under the Occupation, Dahlia Ravikovitch articulates the painful asymmetries of power. The extraordinary stylistic range of her poetry reveals her mastery of the verbal art. from Clockwork Doll I was a clockwork doll, but then That night I turned round and around And fell on my face, cracked on the ground, And they tried to piece me together again. Then once more I was a proper doll And all my manner was nice and polite. But I became damaged goods that night, A fractured twig poised for a fall.
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