Blackberries & Poets
For me the Autumn arrives like the dew, heavy and light all at the same time. My wardrobe reflects the cold morning and I dance in the long shadows whilst marveling at the cobwebs and the fading colors of the lavender in the herb garden.
Knowing another season has grown into the year and soon it will lead into the winter for which seems to to as beautiful and as short lived as the spring. Where I will look forward to bright Oranges from Ave Maria Farm in Spain with anticipation of that of a child at Christmas.
In the meantime I pull out my old poetry book and read Blackberry picking by Seamus Heaney, a poet who could capture a the moment of the everyday and highlight the magic in the undervalued and neglected moments of time passing. This particular poem not only touches my pleasure to read and indulge in poetry for not nothing more than self enjoyment but he turns my head and I look back as if it were this afternoon that I was out picking blackberries before tea, managing with simple words to hold my childhood memory of foraging almost as perfect as my mum’s apple and blackberry pie recipe, it’s as if he was there. So before you collect the bounty of the Autumn and make wonderful Christmas gifts and recreate your own childhood memories of picking blackberries. Have a read of just one of his wonderful poems.
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.
by Seamus Heaney
Source: Death of a Naturalist (1966).