A Little Irish Poetry

Since my freshman poetry class at Emory, I have been a huge fan of Seamus Heaney. Not only does this Nobel Laureate have a beautiful way of concisely conveying the most profound emotions without the baggage of sentimentality, he deftly captures the historical, political and social complexity of Ireland. Often he employs the bog as a metaphor for Irish history ancient and recent. In this metaphor, the bog is a palimpcest that contains marks of each distinct era of Irishness layered in its depths. (note: As a background for the following poem, it is of interest to know that several Catholic girls were tarred and chained to railings in public places as punishment for dating British soldiers.)

Punishment

I can feel the tugof the halter at the nape of her neck, the wind on her naked front. It blows her nipples to amber beads, it shakes the frail rigging of her ribs. I can see her drowned body in the bog, the weighing stone, the floating rods and boughs. Under which at first she was a barked sapling that is dug up oak-bone, brain-firkin: her shaved head like a stubble of black corn, her blindfold a soiled bandage, her noose a ring to store the memories of love. Little adultress, before they punished you you were flaxen-haired, undernourished, and your tar-black face was beautiful. My poor scapegoat, I almost love you but would have cast, I know, the stones of silence. I am the artful voyeur of your brain's exposed and darkened combs, your muscles' webbing and all your numbered bones: I who have stood dumb when your betraying sisters, cauled in tar, wept by the railings, who would connive in civilized outrage yet understand the exact and tribal, intimate revenge. Seamus Heaney

This and other Heaney poems can be found at Poemhunter.com .