Bog Butter, Arson, an Old Woman, and a Kite: Seamus Heaney’s Reckoning With the Past

Edward McGuire’s portrait of Seamus Heaney.

I write this essay at an Evangelical-Christian-affiliated coffee shop in my hometown of Conway, Arkansas. There are many spots like this to choose from (for some reason, all of the coffee shops are in some way affiliated with Christian organizations), but I prefer the breezy, deserted back porch deck at Blue Sail Coffee. Given its close proximity to Hendrix College, whose students often gather at Blue Sail to study and socialize, I can’t help but recall an anecdote about the late poet laureate Seamus Heaney, humorously recounted by my stepfather who was a student when Heaney visited the College for a public talk in 1990. After finishing his talk, the Irish poet wanted a drink. A Scotch, in fact. When Heaney was told that he would need to travel about twenty miles to find the nearest liquor store because Conway is a dry county, he shouted, “What the fuck is a dry county?!”  Currently home in Conway for fall break, I will say that Heaney had a point.

Please, for just a moment, allow my 19-year-old self  to be positioned with regard to this renowned, prolific, and dead poet. I’m pretty sure that’s the point of art, anyway.

At my college (1,160 miles away from Conway), I freely discuss Christianity and the dangers of its intersections with capitalism and politics. The stronghold of the Evangelical Christian lobby is the primary source of my frustration with Conway and the very reason why Seamus Heaney couldn’t sip a refreshing Scotch after speaking to Hendrix students about his poetry 31 years ago. I view Conway now more than ever with a critical eye. My past self lies here in Conway, but who am I as a visitor here in the present? Since I’m not sure I want to answer that question about myself just yet (my therapist can take a stab at that one later), here I’ll focus on Seamus Heaney’s self-analysis instead. 

Reading Heaney’s poetry allows us to meditate upon his struggles with the concepts of identity, time, and our vast and complicated search for the past. As we delve further into Heaney’s work, however, it becomes increasingly clear that water, earth, air, and fire often served as dynamic symbols, bridging gaps between us, as contemporary readers, and Heaney, as a 20th century Irish poet. While deciphering the complex emotional and philosophical suggestions throughout Heaney’s poetry, and their expression through the four elements, we’re capable of understanding and, ultimately, empathizing with the mysterious bog (if you will) of our own jumbles of passion, sorrow, and curiosity.

WATER

“What the fuck is a dry county?” — Poet Laureate Seamus Heaney, circa 1990

In his poem “A Drink of Water” (1979), Heaney immediately establishes his subject: an elderly woman who musters what little energy she has left to draw water from a well. Water plays an important role in its ability to inspire recollections of the past. The woman is at the end of her life and she makes no effort to conceal the physical impairments that complicate her task. We can assume that the sole purpose of the old woman, as far as Heaney is concerned, is to provide water for the community of which Heaney is a part. The bounds of her described characteristics are limited to ungraceful physical traits that almost sound like mockery, a point exemplified by the lines “She came every morning to draw water /  Like an old bat staggering up the field” and “...the treble / Creak of her voice like the pump’s handle.” Much like the latter line suggests, the old woman’s observable qualities are almost indistinguishable from those of her water-obtaining tools, at least in Heaney’s memory. 

In conflating the woman and the water pump, the poem uses auditory stimulation to enhance its metaphors: Heaney includes diction such as “cough,” “clatter,” and “creak” to establish a sense of clumsiness which does not stem from inexperience but from aching joints and exhaustion. It’s through this language that Heaney compares the woman to the apparatus she wearily operates: the pump’s “whooping cough” is a personification of the apparatus, blatantly used to remind us of the woman’s old age and the physical debility associated with it. In addition to this cacophonic language, however, Heaney relates filling up the bucket with water to a “slow diminuendo,” romanticizing this mundane activity with musical vernacular. Similarly, Heaney associates the woman’s voice with a “treble creak.” Instead of solely relying on onomatopoeia-esque diction, Heaney composes a poetic symphony.  

Despite these details, we are told nothing of the woman’s past. Her only defining trait is her dedication to her task, which has been repeated as many times as to suggest permanent physical impairments as a result of long hours and strenuous physical labor. Without her, Heaney and his community would be unable to access water, not only as a substance necessary for mere survival but one revealing Heaney’s reflection (I almost imagine him staring into his glass of water and observing the reflection of his middle-aged face). Though it’s not explicit what this reflection in Heaney’s glass stirs within him, we can speculate that he feels simultaneously nostalgic, grateful, and convicted by the woman’s legacy to choose not to take even a drink of water for granted. Water is a connecting property in this way—and a burden. 

The old woman’s dedication to her task is physically taxing yet necessary; who’s to say that her death—which is implied at the poem’s conclusion (“Remember the Giver” are the words that Heaney notices fade off of the cup’s lip. This persistence of memory evokes a sense of mortality)—isn’t hastened by this seemingly quotidian responsibility? While it is, in this case, a physical burden, it’s also a mental one, and not only for the old woman: a simple drink of water sobers Heaney enough to reflect upon his role as a receiver of hospitality. Whereas at the beginning of the poem he comments on the old woman’s objectively unflattering qualities without acknowledging the benefit of her labor, Heaney is eventually inspired by his sip of water and the “admonishment on her cup” (he tellingly refers to the cup as hers, not his own). In this moment, Heaney gains awareness of his previous judgments of the old woman and ultimately regards her with respect and reverence. Despite its life-giving qualities, water nevertheless contains the possibility of death, clarified by the old woman’s own efforts to draw water from the well that culminates in her eventual demise. Throughout “A Drink of Water,” Heaney actively reflects on this fragile duality and, perhaps more subtly, upon his own life, reckoning with the past—and future—as he reaches the humbling age of forty. Though written 42 years ago, Heaney’s poem inspires our identification, connecting us in our universal—and mutual—reflections upon our own ephemerality.

WIND

Heaney’s 2010 poem “A Kite for Aibhin” was written toward the end of the poet’s life, a fact that becomes increasingly clear as one reads it. In its tender subject matter, this poem finds success through its contemplation on memory, mortality, and the past. Air—wind, to be exact—is the driving force of the poem and is indicative of Heaney’s exploitation of the elements as vehicles through which he may reckon with temporality. Though previous poems consider more detached or objective reflections, “A Kite for Aibhin” instead illustrates, with startling intimacy, a pivotal transition in Heaney’s relationship with his daughter. 

As the title itself suggests, the poem is largely preoccupied with the imagery and symbolism of a kite, one that is associated with Heaney’s meditations upon his life and its ultimate fragility, both of which he can experience much more acutely as his role as father and his relationship with his daughter each shift. At first, the wind supports a kite and allows it to soar “high against the breeze” while Heaney and several others endure the outdoors to witness this phenomenon. After a period of observation, Heaney launches his own kite (referred to as “our,”as if to establish a community with his readers), and it falters as it’s first released into the open wind: the kite “hovers, tugs, veers, dives askew,” and then, eventually, after much anticipation, finds freedom in the sky’s vast arena of unpredictable wind. All the while, he faces Anahorish Hill, which, for an avid reader of Heaney, is understood as his Garden of Eden—a symbol of his happy childhood and the fond memories that occurred there. In this way, the inevitable release of his daughter from his care and into the world is associated with his own detachment from childhood affairs, a cause for self-reflection. 

Heaney’s kite “rises” to “loud cheers from us below.” Beyond this passage, Heaney constantly repeats the word “rises” as his poem progresses, especially at the beginning of the fifth stanza—as a consequence, the poem’s heartbeat seems to hasten. This agility, however, does not imply a tonal derailing but, rather, a shift in Heaney’s control of language. In the subsequent stanza, Heaney is so overwhelmed by being unable to control the kite that he omits the punctuation he once employed throughout the poem, as reflected in the last stanza: “The longing in the breast and planted feet / And gazing face and heart of the kite flier / Until string breaks.” As the emotional climax of the poem, this stanza successfully heightens a sense of longing, one that increases as the kite ascends. However, once the string supporting the kite breaks, it “takes off, itself alone, a windfall,” hinting at Heaney’s observation that his daughter is now completely detached from his control and paternal supervision. It’s unclear whether this regard is meant to register as triumphant or regretful, but by stating that the kite is a “windfall”—an object subject to the whims of the wind—Heaney nevertheless faces the need to place his faith in the kite and in his daughter, acknowledging that he must assign greater weight to his confidence in her ability and strength than to his perception of her youthful vulnerability. 

In “A Kite for Aibhin,” the vast mystery that is the open air symbolizes the transition Heaney’s daughter makes from being held on Earth with paternal care. Earth, where memories of her childhood were created and likely persisted in Heaney’s mind during this event in which he sets her—the kite—free. The wind and air, while invisible, reflect the new reality he must gradually accept after abandoning the comforts of the past. The air is a ubiquitous element, and, although his daughter is no longer within his immediate vicinity and domestic sphere, he may be consoled by the enveloping wind that they share, the same wind that allowed his daughter to pursue an independent life. Now, while the free air in this metaphor signifies liberation and change, it also reeks of uncertainty. Heaney successfully “letting go” of his daughter is one challenge, but anticipating her future and vicariously managing her struggles is another.

(Upon reading “A Kite for Aibhin,” I can’t help but recall the epigraph engraved on Heaney’s headstone on his grave at St. Mary’s Church in Northern Ireland: “Walk on air against your better judgement.” Perhaps these same words of encouragement were offered to Heaney’s daughter as the string that attached her to father was ultimately severed by the pull of the wind and, ultimately, personal growth.)

FIRE

Rather than envisioning himself as an active participant within his 2006 poem “Rilke: After the Fire,” Heaney simply describes the moments as they unfold. His narration style, unlike previous poems, is steeped in an omniscient and pervasively melancholic perspective of the poem’s subject. Throughout the poem, we’re invited to partake in the crisp, burnt smells and in the colors of autumn that Heaney describes: “Early autumn morning hesitated / Shying at newness, an emptiness behind / Scorched linden trees still crowding in around / The moorland house, now just one more wallstead.” The autumn air presents a sense of tranquility, but at a cost.

Heaney’s descriptions of bystanders arouse a level of ambiguity for the reader regarding the given scene’s dynamic—children gather loudly around the rubble of the “moorland house,” falling silent once they encounter the “son of the place,” and it can be assumed that the home once belonged to this man’s father. Instead of offering an explanation for the children’s silence, Heaney shines a spotlight on the “son” as he rakes a “can or kettle / From under hot, half burnt-away house beams” as bystanders continue to observe the scene of destruction with a combination of judgement, fear, and potential disgust. Accessing the son’s feelings, Heaney describes the son’s obligation to explain himself or the situation at hand as arduous, as he “turned to the others present, at great pains.” The son feels as though he has “a doubtful tale to tell” (what a curious case in and of itself!) and, evidently, isn’t poised to accept the sympathetic sentiments from the community around him. Why does he feel shameful? Why has he, a man understood as a victim of a fire, suddenly been ostracized from his surrounding context? We receive no explanation from Heaney—simply an analysis of the new social dynamic that’s been created by this incident: “For now that it was gone, it all seemed / Far stranger: more fantastical than Pharaoh. / And he was changed, a foreigner among them.” It’s worth interrogating whether this observation is Heaney’s or the son’s whose perspective had been accessed by Heaney earlier. Either way, in assuming the role of a bystander, Heaney may nevertheless remain complicit in the son’s internalization of exile, given Heaney’s lack of action against this harsh projection of judgement by others watching the scene with silent scrutiny. 

The role of fire, an element of destruction and intensity, plays a pivotal role in the development of this poem, particularly when associated with circumstances regarding the son as opposed to bystanders at the scene. Fire acts as an agent of truth and a point of no return: once the moorland house has been burned to the ground by its unstoppable force, the son, being suspected of arson, can never recover from his past. Throughout the poem, this figure is referred to as “the son,” nameless and without personal attributions except for his suspected arson. His potential merits of the past are fragile and fleeting when weighed against the accusations of the present. Now, the son’s past is simply a figment of his own imagination: what was before seems “fantastical,” and any attempts to restore it seems futile and inaccessible. Much like the moorland house’s permanent damage and the disfigured metal containers (even though the son attempts to uncover them from the rubble), so has the son’s reputation been permanently scarred by accusations of arson.

Beyond this, it’s similarly relevant to consider that this poem is Heaney’s translation of the 1908 poem of the same name by Austrian poet Rainer Maria Rilke. Why, then, did Heaney choose this poem to translate over other possible ones? Rilke’s poem is imbued with a dark, lonely, and enigmatic texture; perhaps Heaney related these feelings of isolation but not on the same exaggerated scale that Rilke uses. While engaging with this poem, it’s difficult not to sympathize with the son, and I imagine that Heaney feels the same. His own archeological exploration of the past often translates into his fear that even one mistake may define him—as it defined the son—for eternity. 

EARTH

When considering Heaney’s confrontation with the past, a central element continually haunts his prose: the bog, as well as its physical and metaphorical implications. In his 1969 poem “Bogland,” Heaney penetrates the surface of the superficial and descends into the bog for which the poem is named; this body of bog is a metaphor for the vast, rich, and mysterious past belonging to Ireland. Written after the Republic of Ireland had seceded from the United Kingdom in 1922, this poem contends with a new struggle: the Troubles. The late 1960s saw an explosion of tensions in Northern Ireland between the Unionists (predominantly Irish-Protestant), who wished to remain with the United Kingdom, and Irish nationalists (mostly Catholics), who sought independence from the United Kingdom in addition to the incorporation of Northern Ireland into the Republic. 

Heaney’s poetry during the Troubles may be—in fact, certainly has been—read through a blood-red political lens. Despite this, Heaney maintained a somewhat apolitical perspective throughout his work, one that shouldn’t be reduced to monolithic or hard-cutting political commentary but as a complex and nuanced analysis of the human condition as it experiences history. “Bogland,” then, is difficult to separate from its dramatic political moment, but the poem should simultaneously be critically considered for its universal applicability as well as for Heaney’s signature bleak optimism. The poem opens by stating that “We have no prairies / To slice a big sun at evening” and that “Our unfenced country / Is bog that keeps crusting / Between sights of the sun.” In these lines, Heaney seems to indirectly characterize Ireland by comparing it to a country populated with prairies. The United States, for example, is overflowing with these landscapes, and the discovery of its frontiers by explorers was a beacon of expansion and hope for the future. 

The true contrast Heaney attempts to highlight through these lines, however, is that while countries such as the United States were concerned with the future of their new nation, the pursuit of the past is how Ireland uncovers meaning and a separation from outside influence. By using the word “we,” Heaney establishes a protective if not nationalist tone. Irish land is “unfenced”—reckless and wild—and, try as one might, this bog cannot be tamed or predicted, and is beyond subjugation (much like Irish nationalists). Further establishing an insider/outsider dichotomy, Heaney shifts into his next stanza by stating that “They’ve taken the skeleton / Of the Great Irish Elk / Out of the peat…,” suggesting that British colonizers of Northern Ireland have attempted to unearth some of Ireland’s most sacred relics without respect for or regard to their rich histories. In these moments, Heaney’s description of what lies beneath the surface begins. 

“Bogland” continues with a description of the nature of bog butter, a naturally occurring substance excavated from peat bogs in Ireland and Great Britain, of which the “sunk under” has been curiously recovered as a white substance, and whose “kind,” black shade on the bog’s surface has “[missed] its last definition / By millions of years.” At this point in the poem, Heaney authorizes himself not only as an expert on wild Irish terrain, but also as a preserver of its unique history. This sense of expertise further reveals itself  as he derides the “they” figures—or, in this case, British colonizers—by assuming an assured (and smug, as I prefer to think) tone that “[t]hey’ll never dig coal here”; instead, they’ll uncover the “waterlogged trunks of great firs / Soft as pulp.” Try as they might to profit off of Irish land, “they” will only encounter remnants of the natural beings which have made Ireland culturally and environmentally rich, and this subsequent disappointment on the colonizers’ behalf is all the more empowering to Irish nationalists like Heaney. He continues, explaining that “Our pioneers keep striking / Inwards and downwards”; here, his focus shifts to Irish excavators of the past, a solidarity that is punctuated by his use of the pronoun “our.” As they continue to dig, it becomes much more evident that the past is more layered than expected. 

Out of all the natural elements, earth seems to be the most loaded and vast, both metaphorically and physically. Heaney understates the “bogholes” as merely “Atlantic seepage”; when this effect of water is juxtaposed to or supplemented by the bottomless “wet centre,” or the earth that lies beneath the bog, the notion that the earth contains all of Ireland’s secrets is intensified. The earth is formidably solid, unwavering and stubbornly mysterious in nature. Even the most powerful colonizers are no match for its ability to withhold millions of years of history deep inside its core, and Irish citizens may take comfort in the fact that they are well-protected by the rich soil and layers of bog beneath them, formed by mysterious but natural processes. The bog, however, is just the surface of this past, and while it is not completely understood, its solidity is a source of security.

CLOSING THOUGHTS

Seamus Heaney will never quite reach the “wet centre” of the past he longs to understand and perhaps relive. In analyzing the relationship between history, personal events, and the four elements, though, he may be able to feel—if not understand—the universal attraction of the past which he so eloquently (while admittedly a bit enigmatically) expresses throughout his nearly fifty-year long career. 

While water acts as an agent of personal reflection, air represents a lack of control over the past’s offerings of comfort. And, similarly, while fire establishes a point of no return to a past once known, the earth may bring us back to our roots. And as unfathomable as the earth’s depth and composition may be, Heaney and his readers may find curious contentment and wonder through the figurative language and pride that may be evoked from contemplating such a solid yet abstract phenomenon. It’s also nearly impossible to separate the aesthetic of Heaney’s poetry from its historical moment, as much as the poet claimed his right to remain what American literary critic Helen Vendler refers to as “a poet of the in-between.” In other words, Heaney strived to separate critical and analytical interpretation of his poetry from, say, political turmoil such as the Troubles in Northern Ireland, which lasted for most of Heaney’s poetic career and rapidly became a subject of inspiration for many of his contemporaries. 

There is merit, however, to this artistic reservation given that each of Heaney’s poems asserts some level of desire for dominion over the past. Northern Ireland’s culture and history are unique and necessitate defense to sustain them in the face of opposing political forces. Poetry is, in many ways, a fierce defense against the threat of forgetting the past, and Heaney wields this tool (or shall we say his spade?) with dignified vulnerability.

I’ll say it again. “What the fuck is a dry county?!”

This question is one I now can ask more curiously, especially after using these four poems of Heaney’s to explore my own past and present. Heaney’s work urges us to be skeptical: why do we hold on to certain elements of our personal histories? Should we hold on? When is it time to let go? 

I’m not sure that I want to let go of my hometown of Conway, despite the fact that coffee shops are run by conservative-Christian millennials and alcohol can’t be bought for 20 miles outside of city limits. Perhaps this is the most valuable lesson that Heaney has taught me throughout my personally dialogical approaches to his poetry: my hometown, my past, is worth challenging and engaging with. Heaney was alarmed and enraged when he didn’t get his Scotch at Hendrix College, but he still inspired hundreds with his words that April night in 1990.