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readytogo's review
adventurous
challenging
emotional
hopeful
reflective
relaxing
sad
slow-paced
5.0
An absolutely gorgeous collection of poems
greybeard49's review against another edition
5.0
I was a little worried that this might have been a cobbled together collection of poems put together after his death. Not so - coherent and an excellent representation of his work.
So many killer lines, wonderfully explored themes, deep understanding of what we are made of, expansive and intensive and written with a rhythm and beauty rarely seen - Heaney is a genius.
Accessible poetry which is complex and hugely enjoyable. You run out of superlatives.
So many killer lines, wonderfully explored themes, deep understanding of what we are made of, expansive and intensive and written with a rhythm and beauty rarely seen - Heaney is a genius.
Accessible poetry which is complex and hugely enjoyable. You run out of superlatives.
rosa44's review
emotional
reflective
relaxing
medium-paced
4.0
BLACKBERRY-PICKING
For Philip Hobsbaum
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.
For Philip Hobsbaum
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.
colorfulleo92's review
4.0
I haven't read much poetry at all this year and decided to pick this one up. Never read from this author before and he definitely had a way of words. Not my favorite poems but they were easy to consume and very interesting
emercedesrich's review
challenging
emotional
reflective
slow-paced
5.0
A beautiful little introduction to his work.
opinionhaver69's review
5.0
seamus heaney really said i’m going to manifest some powerfully resonant and affecting poetic parallels between the bog bodies of ritual sacrifices and victims of sectarian violence in 1970s northern ireland. and honestly he ate !