Late August

I was looking for a different poem when I turned a few pages and out popped the following poem by Seamus Heaney. After reading it I no longer looked for that other poem, another day perhaps! Today’s poem was written in the 1960s when Heaney was in his early 20s. I am mindful that we can do great harm to poems when we start interpreting them as if they only had one meaning. Once in print a poem is up for whatever we wish and we have to refrain from saying this is what the poet had in mind. That being said, some analysis of this poem indicates the journey from optimism to disappointment then to optimism. It could be read as a sort of coming of age poem. Perhaps you have already picked blackberries from the brambles along the country roads and know only too well how messy your hands and clothes can become, stained by the blood red juices of the berries. Note Heaney’s mention of Bluebeard – from an old French folk tale from 1697 – referencing Bluebeard’s murder of many of his wives. Don’t dwell on Bluebeard, enjoy the memories of blackberry picking in late August.

Blackberry-Picking
Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard’s.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew they would not. Seamus Heaney

Prayer:
Into the stormy sea
You descended and lifted Peter.
Into the storms of sickness
You descended and lifted Jairus’s daughter.
Into the storms of madness
You descended and lifted Legion.
Into the storms of death
You descended and lifted Lazarus.
Into the storms of hell
You descended and lifted us all.
Lift us Lord,
From darkness to light
From sickness to health
From distress to calm.
Lift us Lord,
From sadness to joy
From fear to faith
From loneliness to love.
Lift us Lord,
In mind and in spirit
In word and in deed
In body and in soul.
(from Modern Prayers in Celtic Tradition: David Adam.)