Seamus Heaney - Door into the Dark
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- Book:Door into the Dark
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- Year:2013,1969
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Originally published in 1969, Seamus Heaneys Door into the Dark continues a furrow so startlingly opened in his first collection, Death of a Naturalist (1966). With the sensuosness and physicality of language that would become the hallmark of his early writing, these poems graphically depict the authors rural upbringing, from the local forge to the banks of Lough Neagh, concluding in the preserving waters of the bogland and a look ahead to his next book, Wintering Out (1972).
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For my father and mother
The sweaty twist of the bellyband Has stiffened, cold in the hand, And pads of the blinkers Bulge through the ticking. Reins, chains and traces Droop in a tangle. His hot reek is lost. The place is old in his must. He cleared in a hurry Clad only in shods Leaving this stable unmade.
My sleeves were rolled And the air fanned cool past my arms As I swung and buried the blade, Then laboured to work it unstuck. The next stroke Found a mans head under the hook. Before I woke I heard the steel stop In the bone of the brow.
He grunted a curt Go by. Get up on that gate. And from my lofty station I watched the business-like conception. The door, unbolted, whacked back against the wall. The illegal sire fumbled from his stall Unhurried as an old steam-engine shunting. He circled, snored and nosed.
No hectic panting, Just the unfussy ease of a good tradesman; Then an awkward, unexpected jump, and, His knobbled forelegs straddling her flank, He slammed life home, impassive as a tank, Dropping off like a tipped-up load of sand. Shell do, said Kelly and tapped his ash-plant Across her hindquarters. If not, bring her back. I walked ahead of her, the rope now slack, While Kelly whooped and prodded his outlaw Who, in his own time, resumed the dark, the straw.
The river cramming under me reflects Slung gaff and net and a white wrist flicking Flies well-dressed with tint and fleck. Walton thought garden worms, perfumed By oil crushed from dark ivy berries The lure that took you best, but here you come To grief through hunger in your eyes. Ripples arrowing beyond me, The current strumming water up my leg, Involved in waters choreography I go, like you, by gleam and drag And will strike when you strike, to kill. Were both annihilated on the fly. You cant resist a gullet full of steel.
Outside, old axles and iron hoops rusting; Inside, the hammered anvils short-pitched ring, The unpredictable fantail of sparks Or hiss when a new shoe toughens in water. The anvil must be somewhere in the centre, Horned as a unicorn, at one end square, Set there immovable: an altar Where he expends himself in shape and music. Sometimes, leather-aproned, hairs in his nose, He leans out on the jamb, recalls a clatter Of hoofs where traffic is flashing in rows; Then grunts and goes in, with a slam and flick To beat real iron out, to work the bellows.
It seemed he spent the morning warming up: Then fixed the ladder, laid out well-honed blades And snipped at straw and sharpened ends of rods That, bent in two, made a white-pronged staple For pinning down his world, handful by handful. Couchant for days on sods above the rafters, He shaved and flushed the butts, stitched all together Into a sloped honeycomb, a stubble patch, And left them gaping at his Midas touch.
When youre in it alone, You might have dropped, a reduced creature, To the heart of the globe. No worshipper Would leap up to his God off this floor. Founded there like heroes in a barrow, They sought themselves in the eye of their King Under the black weight of their own breathing. And how he smiled on them as out they came, The sea a censer and the grass a flame.
No milk-limbed Venus ever rose Miraculous on this western shore. A pirate queen in battle clothes Is our sterner myth. The breakers pour Themselves into themselves, the years Shuttle through space invisibly. Where crests unfurl like creamy beer The queens clothes melt into the sea And generations sighing in The salt suds where the wave has crashed Labour in fear of flesh and sin For the time has been accomplished As through the shallows in swimsuits, Bare-legged, smooth-shouldered and long-backed, They wade ashore with skips and shouts. So Venus comes, matter-of-fact.
The priest lay behind ditches with the tramp. A people, hardly marching on the hike We found new tactics happening each day: Wed cut through reins and rider with the pike And stampede cattle into infantry, Then retreat through hedges where cavalry must be thrown. Until, on Vinegar Hill, the fatal conclave. Terraced thousands died, shaking scythes at cannon. The hillside blushed, soaked in our broken wave.
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