The school holidays are now in full swing. Consequently I have not so much time for writing or posting. Besides, blackberries are here early this year, so no one should have time to read it. Wherever you all are, you should be outside picking and eating blackberries right now.
|Go Outside Now!|
|Eaten By The Handfull|
Blackberry Picking by Seamus Heaney
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
|Yum - Starting to Ripen Now|
Busy as I am, I can always find time to write a poem or lyric for you, so here is my own personal paean to these dark jewels of the hedgerow…
Favourite flavours, temptation - too good
And it’s all staring down from the hedge by the wood.
You promised that you would not hurt me this time
Still the sting in my digits remains in the wine.
Always there is something about which to warn;
The hotter the sun, the deeper the thorn.
A worthy opponent, with briars to joust;
I want to crush you - to juice in my mouth.
In the green of the field, in the glare that can stun;
I long to pluck you - outside in the sun.
Your barb in my fingers, the pain in my palm
That stain it still lingers, your extract and balm.
Eden emergent, the edge of a stream,
Verdant the verge in the dark of the dream.
My own poetry, I couldn't possibly comment on...
|What Do You Think?|
Post dedicated to Seamus Heaney who passed away on this day.