Blackberry-Picking, by Seamus Heaney
February 12th 2009 00:38
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
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.
I love Seamus Heaney's poetry because he always draws from real experiences from his own life. An axiom of the writer's trade is "write about what you know." Clearly, Heaney knows a lot about life from his own experiences, and a lot about poetry, judging from his poems.
This poem shows his mastery of the poetic craft in that it is tightly, precisely constructed so that the form of the poem doesn't call attention to itself, instead enhancing the words themselves. Upon first reading, this poem might appear to be free verse, but it is actually highly structured and logical. It's not exactly iambic--there are lots of dibrachs and spondees and dactyls all over the place--yet each line flows well, almost all containing 10 syllables, give an extra one here and there. Also, although the end-rhymes aren't full, the couplets do rhyme partially; that is, at least one sound in the words are the same, usually the end-sounds: cache/bush, burned/peppered, for/hunger, etc. It's very subtle, but the form is there.
I also love this poem because of its tight phrasing--there are no breezy or pretentious words/phrases here--and the diction is very precise. "A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache" is one of my favorite lines. There are myriads of other words that could also mean "grey," and many synonyms for "glutting" and "cache." But these words produced the right tone for the poem. In the whole thing there aren't any huge words and barely any adverbs; it's all very active and alive.
The poem poignantly presents a childhood memory, a memory that many people as kids--including myself--can relate to in some way. And under the surface lurks a plethora of possible hidden meanings, which could be different for each reader, depending on their assumptions and experiences and thoughts that they bring to the reading. The whole thing could be one big metaphor for many other things. One deeper meaning for me is that sometimes our plans in life don't work out the way we want them to, or that, when we get there, we realize something was wrong with it all along. Abstract, I know, but I couldn't think of any other way to describe it.
I hope you all enjoy the poem. If anyone thinks of other meanings for the poem, feel free to share! Have a good night!
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Comment by Edward Allen
Sanity Road
Thanks for the great memories--well written too.
We used to pick wild blackberries by the road back in the 1950's. I have to say we dodged more than one
copperhead and rattlesnake in the process.
We canned them and, Oh! they were great with sugar and a warm fireplace in the winter.
Comment by Edward Allen
Sanity Road
Not to be critical, but helpful--I hope.