With proper techniques, anything becomes a thoughtful expression of the poet. Even though the picker knows this will happen, they still pick the fruit in the hope that it won’t.Can simple tasks serve as worthy and complex subjects of poetry? In his poem, “Blackberry-Picking,” Seamus Heaney proves that, yes, they can. The delicious fruit quickly ferments and rots, leaving a sour taste in the mouth. The end of the poem creates feelings of loss and regret. You could easily read sexual connotations into these lines, if you so desired. I particularly like these lines: “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.” Comparing the blackberry juice to wine and blood, leading to feelings of pleasure and lust. It stirs emotions with its wistful gaze into the poet’s youth and the seemingly endless days of summer during childhood. Heaney’s language is descriptive and visual. I love the images this poem creates in my head as I read it. Seamus Heaney reading his poem “Blackberry-Picking” That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.Įach year I hoped they’d keep, knew they would not.
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.īut when the bath was filled we found a fur,Ī rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard’s. With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned Until the tinkling bottom had been covered We trekked and picked until the cans were full, Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots. Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was in it You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.Īmong others, red, green, hard as a knot.
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