 John Duncan, Saint Bride, 1913, National Galleries, Scotland Nicholas Pierce
Uncover your harp, release that waterfall of light melodies — fresh airs to quell a fever. Submit. Travel in song; give way to the call to soothe my sorrow, succour my sadness. A warp to bind golden threads for the blind: a loom to weft our slumbering spirits. See how women in labour rest, the lost find: the stark claret blood of soldiers is arrested. Men turn from anguish as notes rush down Rory’s Glen in Kilwaughter, where cuckoos laud you. Magician, where is your fairy mound, for you must descend from divine gods of lore?
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 The Home of the Heron, George Inness, 1839, Oil on Canvas, Edward B. Butler Collection, Art Institute Chicago Part I: 'Bogland' & 'For Once, Then Something'
Part II: 'Out Out' & 'The Harvest Bow.' These notes are intended to support A-level students, but fans of Heaney and Frost may wish to reacquaint themselves with the poems too. They were originally compiled for a lecture. Note to students: As you work through the poems, it is important you develop your own interpretations first before reading anything that anyone else has written. Your current personal circumstances and today's political and social climate are useful lenses through which to see the poems. Due to copyright, I have not included the Heaney poems. It is best to have them in front of you when reading. The poems can be found at the following links: Bogland For Once, Then Something Out, Out-- 'The Harvest Bow' is not available on an authorised site. Part I 'Bogland' It is true that Ireland has no prairies 'to slice a big sun at evening,' but I take a different view of the landscape around Lough Neagh. On my first journey to Seamus Heaney HomePlace in Bellaghy, I drove up the M2 through a silvery-white, wintry landscape. The sky dominated and the sun flamed red on the horizon. This was a striking contrast to my own home place of hills, craggy shoreline, basalt rock, and industry. Admittedly, the horizon was not endless — the Sperrin Mountains framed the canvas — but the flat, wide openness of Heaney’s landscape reminded me of America. The painting in my own imagination, therefore, contradicts the grain of this poem. This is how I began my personal conversation with 'Bogland'. Your experience of the poem will be entirely different from mine. ‘Bogland’ appears visually long and narrow, as though words are pouring down the page. It is a plainly set poem, but richly orated through assonance in “bog,” “wooed,” “Cyclops,” “astounding,” and the soft, pulpy echoes that form part of Heaney’s word hoard of onomatopoeia. Cyclops, the one-eyed giant of Greek mythology, becomes a metaphor for the round, dark lakes set into mountains or tarns. Heaney describes the country as 'unfenced,' emphasising how bog dominates the Irish landscape: around twenty per cent of Ireland is bog, after all. If you’re wondering what a bog actually is, Heaney offers some earthy descriptions. In ‘To a Dutch Potter in Ireland’ (not on your course), he calls it 'slabbery, clabbery, wintry, puddled ground.' Elsewhere, he delights in the word 'snottery,' revelling in language that might once have been banished from the classroom. In Preoccupations: Selected Prose, 1968–1978, he writes: 'To this day, green, wet corners, flooded wasters, soft rushy bottoms… possess an immediate and deeply peaceful attraction. It is as if I am betrothed to them.' In Irish and Scottish folklore, bogs are liminal places, where the physical and spiritual worlds meet, but they are also ominous, and, as a child, Heaney feared bog holes as dangerous traps from which there was no return. During my own first days in Bellaghy, it seemed that water flowed into every orifice of the land — Lough Neagh, Lough Beg, and the River Bann all feeding into a landscape of wetlands. If you ever have the chance, visit the Strand at Lough Beg. There, you can experience this environment for yourself (and stand in the setting of one of Heaney’s most cherished poems, even if it’s not on your syllabus). Bog does indeed crust over in the sun, something you can observe around the peatlands near Bellaghy or on the road to Newferry Harbour. Beneath that crust, remarkable things are preserved. On the day of that vast sky I mentioned, news broke (in January 2024) of a bog body discovery in Bellaghy. Given Heaney’s fascination with bog bodies, it was as though the poet had conjured Ballymacombs More Woman from the grave. While the discovery of a preserved bog body (without a head) in Bellaghy came too late for the poem ‘Bogland’, the Great Irish Elk, referenced in the poem, had already been unearthed in 1953, when Heaney was a teenager. (More recently, in 2018, fishermen recovered an enormous skull and antlers of an elk from Lough Neagh, dating back around 10,500 years). Sphagnum moss is the key to this preservation: it conserves organic material with extraordinary effectiveness — elk, human bodies, even butter. The bog, in this sense, was the original refrigerator, and in the fourth stanza, the land becomes 'black butter,' 'melting and opening underfoot,' the image melting through enjambment into the next stanza. Scientifically, this landscape has not undergone the pressure and heat required to form coal, reinforcing its sense of incompletion and fluidity. Heaney introduces the idea of 'pioneers.' In an American context, pioneers are those who pushed westward. But who are the Irish pioneers? Heaney places them in the present tense: 'Our pioneers keep striking / Inwards and downwards.' This suggests excavation rather than expansion. Archaeologists are one possible interpretation, those who have uncovered layers of history. Or perhaps our pioneers are poets: is it the poet's task to uncover the truth by digging downwards? Heaney ultimately situates Ireland within a wider Atlantic context. This may reflect patterns of migration, with successive waves of Celts, Norse settlers, and English colonisers moving to the island, and then onwards to America. Unlike the vast 2,800-mile expansion of the American frontier, Ireland’s journey west is shorter — just over 100 miles. The poem suggests that the real journey is not across land, but down into it. The 'wet centre' of the bog stretches endlessly inward. The poem itself ends without a full stop. Open and unfinished, 'the wet centre is bottomless.' To read the rest of both Part I and Part II, click 'Read More'. I became a little obsessed by bog bodies when working at the Seamus Heaney HomePlace in 2024 and 2025, not least because news came through of an Iron Age bog woman being found in Bellaghy on my first day at work. I have written a series of poems on this discovery. Here is Part II part of the first of them, 'Ballymacombs More Woman'. Archaeologists don't name bog bodies, but I named her Bríd after attending at conference at which the significance of this name in ancient Ireland was explained. Here, Bríd converses directly with Seamus Heaney. Ballymacombs More Woman After Seamus Heaney II Some day, I will rise and whisper you wise that the only story ever told was that of sacrifice, for you initiated, conjured me in an inky, inky river. Come, come with me to the edge of the tober mór, and I will acquaint you with a starry night, where no eyes white, like a goddess, stare back. I am Bríd. Picture me kneeling – la tête coupée. Published in Ulster University's Paperclip V, 2025 In keeping with my exploration of Alice Pike Barney, I have chosen 'Pagan Dancer', to accompany this poem: 1901, pastel on canvas, Smithsonian American Art Museum, 1957.   Being part of a big family is magical for children. My mum was one of sixteen, so I was always surrounded by cousins.
Ballysnod We reach the summit in the inky part of day – ready to be written – and look beyond lines of skinny houses to giant Woodbine puffing as the Townsend Thoresen scissors the navy sea. Scarlet-cheeked cousins play inside – two score and more – and tumble and titter and tee-hee by the hearth, where a new baby is changed and wrapped in a white, bobbly blanket. Granny casts a crafty smile in the corner – reflexive conjugation – and the clickety-click of stout knitting needles conjures honeycomb lines in Aaron wool unwinding above a pile of cardigans scented with barley. Granda’s heavy hands rest on his belly – past imperious – and he half-snoozes with one eye on his lamb sheep huddled close to the orange fire, where buckled, leather belts hang idle. Aunts rattle the golden bucket of coal – eleven in prime – and the hiss of wet slack unleashes a draught as children eat a communion of squished up loaf and sip Ribena from silver goblets. In the parlour, uncles talk unseen – five lost for a crown – and shake a fist at nephews who creep through the hall, sucking the scent of Imperial Leather as they learn what is for men to be at peace. Joyce’s eyes well in the window pane – still one of sixteen children – and her cradling voice follows a gust of wind that catches me falling, lace-on-lace, into a bride’s arms in infant days of summer. Later, I step outside into the darkness and hear the clickety-click of time unwinding and know that they will all come home – to Ballysnod. 'Ballysnod' was placed 5th in the 8th Annual Bangor Poetry Competition, December 2020. Image: Melancholy, Odilon Redon, 1876, Art Institute Chicago. Ah go on. Give it a go. This is my first narrative poem. It was written in the midst of my historical research on the Agnews, as I'd found an Agnew on the Eagle Wing ship to America, which famously sailed across the Atlantic from Ulster in 1636, only to turn back after a storm. I discovered another poet called Robert Blair, whose grandfather was also on the Eagle Wing. He was a 'graveyard' poet, a sort of early gothic writer, and this appealed to me, not least because I'm the only person I know who still says graveyard instead of cemetery. I reference some of his words in this poem. I also give voice to a wumman! The Wumman who birthed Seaborn After Robert Blair She is lang spire and witch bell, amangst a hundret and forty radical souls westerin. The hull o her kirk is wuided in oak. A September flurry tirls, rough aff Rathlin, as paps helter and isles skelter and mulls and rhins slink and sickle lik ghaists. Rain lashes her cheeks. Unborn fists and futs. She tholes a twang. A threid o watter gaithers at the feet o elders, who clesp invisible crosses. A man o bauld deeds climbs intae the cradle o a sea mountain: steidfest wi hopes an tools, he fixes the rudder. Two bairns suckle, an oul soul gaes hame tae his maister, the Eagle’s Wing turns whaur Titanic held oot, hameless folk hame east for tae mak a makkar o ‘The Grave’ poet and paint a gothic pictur o the hard-hunted beast slaverin undergroun in the barren womb o naethin. A bairn dies. She lies noo, skellying an eye at the young, lost mither. The flesh atween her legs is skelfed. A hand in her creel turns the heid. A snell schraik awaks the livin and the deid. The efterbirth croons Presbyterian. Seaborn —an oul name in an oul tongue, lik Man O Bauld Deeds. Noo, in Lough Fergus, whaur phantoms lurk on wasted docks, whaur rudderless ships and secular steel barren wombs are static, I wunner wud I hae tightened my lips aroon zeilous wirds, lik papish and transubstantiation. Wud I hae decried the priests’ harems, thrust stuils at episcopal priests, planned a better hame-comin for my ain soul, lik the wumman* who birthed Seaborn on the Eagle’s Wing in 1636? *Wife of Michael Colvert of Killinchy 'The Wumman who birthed Seaborn' was awarded second place in the Frances Browne Festival poetry competition (Ulster Scots Category), October 2023. The poem also won a special 'spirit of the festival' award for breaking new ground. Image: The Reunion of the Soul and the Body, 1813, William Blake (1757 - 1827), Illustration for 'The Grave', A Poem by Robert Blair. Illustrated By Twelve Etchings, Royal Academy of Arts.  My first job was in Kenarna chipshop on the Old Glenarm Road, which was owned by David Liddle. I was in third year, aged fourteen, and had to have an emergency lesson beforehand on how to cut an onion. Winnie did the frying, and Diane and Sandra trained me up on the essentials, like how to wrap chips – I'm still an expert. The laughter in the kitchen was constant, as was the stream of customers right up until last orders in the pubs. We closed at twelve. David arranged for us all to be taxi'd home, filled to the brim with fried food. School finished at 3.45, so I sprinted across through the Health Centre to attempt to get there for four. I got home after midnight on Mondays and Thursdays, when I started my homework. (My neighbour told me that I was never in bed before 2.00am). Then I worked on a Friday night, so I was able to keep Irish dancing on Saturdays that first year. By fourth year I had another job in Apsley's newsagents. For a while I did both, until my history teacher reminded me of the importance of GCSEs. These poems happen to comprise what we now call Ulster Scots. It was just the way people spoke back then. It may also help to know that Transvision Vamp was all the rage in third year! On Velveteen Hang up your Pollicitis Addere Facta blazer, step into gingham, take a deep breath, and tidy away your ings. Jouk whitin in tae flour and gleek as grease blisters, bubbles n grows; harl a sack up the sappled steps and hear the spuds dunner against the steel; slap scaldin japs fra yer han and wipe the spit o chips fra yer knee; gulder, ‘Next!’ and write a wheen o orders in yer heid; shiver salt n vinegar and forge a fish supper swaddled in cream. Skim the cream silken sheen and screeve your German, French and Spanish on Velveteen. Irregular girl; perfect tense: Monter Retourner Rester Venir Arriver Naître Sortir Tomber Rentrer Aller Mourir Partir Entrer Descendre. Mr R Vans Tramped; Mr R Trans Vamped: Transvision Vamp. Half past midnight, Braw bricht moonlight, Scrub aff the batter, Sweel aff the grease, Fulfil your promise, and mind what ye writ, in your heed at fourteen. Angeline King Published in Community Arts Partnership, Vision, 2019/20 Apsley’s Newsagents, Est. 1903 Wuiden shelves chime wi Irish lace and linen, crystal trinkets, bare-skud hardbacks hunkered doon like square soldiers, words aimed – yin day – at weans grespin leathery liquorice laces happed in Paisley-patterned paper, hearkenin yarns o grannies built peelie like The People’s Friend, ganshin, gabbin, crackin neath yellow, striped awning. Waater drips doon tweed caps. Scent o Woodbine, o war, o dulse, o ale. Bachelors cowp coins, scatter tobacco, buy news, pay for pipe dreams weighed in siller scales glentin ahint the coonter, midget gems sowl in quarters, ribbons and iambs measured by the meter — similes settled by the score. We sing and dance. 'Apsley’s Newsagents, Est. 1903' was the winning poem in the Frances Browne Festival poetry competition (Ulster Scots Category), October 2021 Image: Alma Thomas, The Eclipse, 1970, acrylic on canvas, Smithsonian American Art Museum.  This poem was written after I listened to the BBC Radio Scotland podcast 'Bible John: Creation of a Serial Killer' (2022), in which journalist Audrey Gillan investigated the late 1960s murders of Patricia Docker, Jemima MacDonald, and Helen Puttock, exploring their lives, the failings of the original investigations and claims of a police cover-up regarding a suspect. I also thought of Lulu. In Barrowlands with Big Bands Dust falls silver from the sprung floors of Glasgow skies as sling-backs quickstep above kirk spires and three women jive cathedral-long nights in the city that never stops dancing. Those schoolgirl days were forever in Barrowlands with big bands. Jemima, Patricia, Helen, birl two-three and – Shout! We are dancers. Angeline King Published in Ulster University Paperclip Vol. III, 2023. Image: Emilio Cruz, The Dance, 1962, Smithsonian American Art Museum  A short one from me. A memory of holding my little baby girl after work when she was sick. I love the words heart-sorry and heart-sore and use them frequently in my writing.
Heart-Sore I cradle you sleeping Learn the rain on your lashes Know the lull in your snowdrift Sup your scarlet face Place a cool hand on your cheek I'm heart-sore Angeline King Published in Community Arts Partnership, Threshold, 2021/22  This poem was written after taking a walk up to Ballysnod, a lovely spot close to where I live in East Antrim. The hedges had just been cut and there was still some measure of lockdown quiet. I approached my granny's old house and thought of what has been handed down to me from the women in my family and society. Alas, I have no sewing skills!
Dance of Cow Parsley Scent of mother’s milk, laced hook and eye onto collars darned in linen yarn, I necklace you onto paper and dance – dress umbellifer in green fields, soundless of the cock, bereft of the breeze of barley. Gorse cut back – melancholy saffron hemming hedges – half-petal embroidery birthed after fire. I climb with a maternal line over bleach greens. Supping. Stitching. Scribing. Angeline King Published in Community Arts Partnership, Heartland, 2020/21 Image: Firelight, Alice Pike Barney, 1952, Smithsonian American Art Museum. |
Angeline KingI've been 'dabbling' in poetry for so long that I thought it was time to create a poetry blog. |
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