The refuge, the place where we can be ourselves; the place from which we long to escape, the place where we face absence and loneliness; a humble apartment in the center or an idyllic countryside cabin. Like it or not, home is where we spend most of our moments. Home is, of course, many things to many poets. It is Billy Collins' beloved armchair and Imtiaz Dharker's "Living Space" in the slums of Mumbai. It is Wordsworth's "beloved vale" in Grasmere and Philip Larkin's Coventry, the place where nothing remarkable happens. It can be somewhere we yearn for, perhaps unrealizable: Ovid and Mahmoud Darwish mourn their homelands, Kapka Kassabova searches for "a home we can never find," while Jules Supervielle is a "Nostalgist of the Earth." There is an abundance of domestic life: Attend a depressing morning chez Jacques Prévert; observe Wendy Cope and her partner happily "Being Boring." Be transported to Anna Barbauld's laundry day, Marilyn Nelson sweeping, Buson mending his clothes, and Fiona Wright dealing with a Tupperware party. Take a peek at Amy Lowell in the bathroom and John Donne in bed, Auden in the toilet and Joy Harjo at the kitchen table. Here are moves and returns home, good and bad neighbors. Inevitably, after a year of enforced domestic life, some thoughts on confinement (Anna McDonald, Pauline Prior-Pitt); Mary Oliver's dream home, the homes where Naomi Shihab Nye's children live, U. A. Fanthorpe's far from safe houses, and some final thoughts on the idea of a dwelling place from Rumi, Emily Dickinson, John Burnside, Vinita Agrawal, Derek Walcott, and Iman Mersal. It may not always be sweet, but there truly is no place like home.
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