Poetic Thoughts

Blackberry Picking

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.
… 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.
Poems 1965-1975, by Seamus Heaney

A friend suggested I might like the poems of Mr. Heaney, but it’s been years since I read any books of poetry. I began reading the book she recommended as a kind of a politeness, but not expecting much of value, nor of interest. I found to my surprise that I quickly found not only interest, but heart. The words described things so well that I could see and taste them, and they opened my mind to so many other things. The above poem was one of the first I read in that book, the book I purchased but expected to quickly relegate to the shelf. I’m slowly savoring, and teasing myself in anticipation, as I read the rest.

So much of life is like the blueberries, as described above. I read of the blueberries tasting and smelling so lush and wonderful, springtime, growth, and a new happiness, and I think of so many things of life that I’ve felt like that. A new baby, a new friend, a new love, each new happiness a new joy, something that I wanted to pick and preserve and never have go away, the feeling of joy so divine. It’s something I thought I would never grow tired of, and the feelings would never grow old. But perhaps those are things which I just wished for, because they did.

I thought of the new job, the new book, or the new hobby, each was something delightful, challenging yet bringing joy with the discovery of seemingly never-ending newness, twists and turns --- and rewards, personal rewards of satisfaction, the ones that no money could ever buy. Those first hours, days, and months are times I wished could never end, and would never cease repeating. But over time, I found they did.

Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew they would not.

Seamus’ poem shows us the joy of springtime and newness, and the inevitability of autumn. Whether we wish it or not, on some things a rat-grey fungus will grow. All things in life have a season; nothing in life stands still, no matter how much we would like to capture and retain the moment. Pictures capture what we saw at one time, but they can never capture that feeling when we first saw some things, first tasted their newness and their beauty. Oh how we wish it could be otherwise.

I once read how our newness in God should be like the first explorers who came out of the wood and first caught sight of the Grand Canyon. No travelogue, no pictures, no videos to taint their expectations, but just pure awe at the unexpected majesty that they saw. That should be our continual relationship with God, ever growing, ever new, ever awesome. I like that concept, but I remember the blueberries. Things can never be as I’d like them; they can never stay the same.

Therein, I think, lies the problem.

There are so many wonderful things in our life which we would like to remain the same, but they can never be so. Nothing stays the same, except God. All life on earth is an ever-flowing river through time. As much as we’d like to stop at some scenic point and never leave, that is not our choice, we must move on. We can swim mightily against the current, but at some point we must tire, and then losing the battle becomes just that much more difficult to absorb – we lost despite all our efforts, and we feel somewhat of a failure. Seamus’ poem concluded with a key truism: I hoped they’d keep, knew they would not. He does not end his poem in disaster or in sorrow, but merely a wistful thought. From there the reader might imply the next line: “And next year I’d feel the same.” You see, Mr. Heaney doesn’t end his thought in despair, but looks at it as just being a thought, a pleasant memory of an event which had an end. But next year will come spring again. The end of one pleasantness does not mean the eternal end of pleasantness, even if at the moment all you see and smell is rot. But you, as a thinking and faith-filled person KNOW what will happen in the future, even if it seems at the moment far off. There will be another springtime.

And so, despite the smell of today, we know there will still be new jobs, new books, and new hobbies, each as exciting or --- pray God --- even more exciting than the last. And we will see new babies, new friends, and perhaps even new loves, and the old ones will merely be pictures, which evoke strong memories of good times. But in our minds, we KNOW of future good times, and we can expect them. No matter how dull or sad life may be now, you will know that you will again taste the sweet fruits of life, and its flesh (will be) sweet, like thickened wine.

Do not be anxious. God has promised you many wonderful things; you have barely begun to anticipate, much less see them, as yet. But He promised. And you will live to see them, to smell them, and to taste their sweetness.

He promised.