This summary describes two poems about Ireland - "My Country in Darkness" by Eavan Boland and "Bogland" by Seamus Heaney.
The first poem depicts a bard traveling alone at night through Ireland, with no food, shelter, or future as his patrons have left for wars abroad. All that remains of Gaelic culture stretches out under a tree and will fade away as he falls asleep in the darkness.
The second poem describes the landscape of Ireland as bog instead of prairie. The ground is like black butter that melts underfoot, with layers below that seem always settled upon in the past. Though they will never dig coal, pioneers keep burrowing inward and downwards into
This summary describes two poems about Ireland - "My Country in Darkness" by Eavan Boland and "Bogland" by Seamus Heaney.
The first poem depicts a bard traveling alone at night through Ireland, with no food, shelter, or future as his patrons have left for wars abroad. All that remains of Gaelic culture stretches out under a tree and will fade away as he falls asleep in the darkness.
The second poem describes the landscape of Ireland as bog instead of prairie. The ground is like black butter that melts underfoot, with layers below that seem always settled upon in the past. Though they will never dig coal, pioneers keep burrowing inward and downwards into
This summary describes two poems about Ireland - "My Country in Darkness" by Eavan Boland and "Bogland" by Seamus Heaney.
The first poem depicts a bard traveling alone at night through Ireland, with no food, shelter, or future as his patrons have left for wars abroad. All that remains of Gaelic culture stretches out under a tree and will fade away as he falls asleep in the darkness.
The second poem describes the landscape of Ireland as bog instead of prairie. The ground is like black butter that melts underfoot, with layers below that seem always settled upon in the past. Though they will never dig coal, pioneers keep burrowing inward and downwards into
After the wolves and before the elms the bardic order ended in Ireland. Only a few remained to continue a dead art in a dying land: This is a man on the road from Youghal to Cahirmoyle. He has no comfort, no food and no future. He has no fire to recite his friendless measures by. His riddles and flatteries will have no reward. His patrons sheath their swords in Flanders and Madrid. Reader of poems, lover of poetry in case you thought this was a gentle art follow this man on a moonless night to the wretched bed he will have to make: The Gaelic world stretches out under a hawthorn tree and burns in the rain. This is its home, its last frail shelter. All of it Limerick, the Wild Geese and what went before falters into cadence before he sleeps: He shuts his eyes. Darkness falls on it.
Seamus Heaney, Bogland,
We have no prairies To slice a big sun at evening-Everywhere the eye concedes to Encrouching horizon, Is wooed into the cyclops' eye Of a tarn. Our unfenced country Is bog that keeps crusting Between the sights of the sun. They've taken the skeleton Of the Great Irish Elk Out of the peat, set it up
An astounding crate full of air.
Butter sunk under More than a hundred years Was recovered salty and white. The ground itself is kind, black butter Melting and opening underfoot, Missing its last definition By millions of years. They'll never dig coal here, Only the waterlogged trunks Of great firs, soft as pulp. Our pioneers keep striking Inwards and downwards, Every layer they strip Seems camped on before. The bogholes might be Atlantic seepage. The wet centre is bottomless.