Here’s a wonderful poem by Seamus Heaney entitled ‘Thatcher’, with comments by Ira Maine, Poetry Editor
After the Hitler war, when I was a kid in country Ireland, young local ploughmen always had an audience. One or two watchers to begin with, lifetime habit early birds, already settling themselves on the field wall and lighting their pipes as the light came up. The horses, snuffling and eager, tramped and jingled, their breath wreathed magically around their heads. The onlookers were not there to watch a master at work. They were there to watch a learner make a total ‘omadan’ of himself. Pronounced ‘Omma- Dawn’ it is the Gaelic word for ‘idiot.’They were there to fall about helplessly as wobbly furrows were accidentally gone over twice or trampled to hell and gone by ill-directed Irish Draught horses. They were there to see a momentary lapse in concentration fail to leave enough room to turn at the headland, or how great the hump in the middle of the field would be when the learner had finished ‘ploughing’. And they all waited, breathlessly, to see the ploughman lose his footing, stumble and fall on his arse.
Then the fun was over, the chuckling ceased and for the next two hours, the old hands would take turns to walk patiently alongside the young learner, advising, easing, quietly watching, quick to correct, murmuring encouragement, helping to instil confidence, until the boy found himself walking alone behind the horses again, the men retired to the headland once more, watching, thoughtful and quiet.
They would be back again tomorrow, and the next day. The boy was their apprentice now and the quality of his skills would reflect on them. They already knew, by the way he carried himself, how he accepted advice, how he responded to his animals, that he had a good head, essential to the making of a ploughman. How good would absolutely depend on them.
Bless my soul, carried away…it’s my only excuse…
Here’s a wonderful poem by Seamus Heaney entitled ‘Thatcher’. where the already highly skilled tradesman appears suddenly one morning to perform a service that is beyond the ken, absolutely beyond the grasp of ordinary mortals. He is going to thatch a cottage. This is an absolute reversal of the ploughman story. Those who gather to watch can offer no advice but all of them have opinions. If the thatcher was to take any notice of their mutterings he might as well abandon all and take up macrame.
The second four line verse where the man seems to do very little except fiddle around with hazel and willow rods, or ‘…opened and handled sheaves of lashed wheat-straw…’
Where would you get ‘sheaves’ of wheat straw nowadays? You’d need a reaper and binder in order to get sheaves. Long lengths of tubular wheat-straw, bound tightly together and left stacked to dry in the sun. Buy a bale of wheat-straw today and the tubular stems have been smashed, flattened and rendered useless by the baler. The tubes contain air and provide insulation within the thatch.
Down on the ground the natives are restless.
‘..it seemed he spent the morning warming up…’
You can imagine the grizzling and the grumbling, the ill-informed negative whingeing as the man goes about his professional preparation.
‘Why is he taking so long?’
‘Why doesn’t he just get on with it?’
‘What the hell’s he doing now?’
Then he is on the roof, hooping and lashing, trimming and flushing, pushing the u-shaped and sharpened hazel ‘staples’ down into the golden wheat to fix them permanently. It is a mad chaotic scene with gold bundles of wheat everywhere, and onlookers shaking their heads knowledgeably as if they knew what was wrong and knew precisely what to do to fix it. Bundles of whippy willow are hauled up amongst the rafters, adding to the the apparent disaster. The willow is somehow sewn into place, the thatching knives alive, chopping, trimming, the whetstone singing on the blade’s edge. More and more wheat bundles are hauled aloft, some accepted, some rejected, the rejects rolling softly down the roof and catching against the half-finished thatch. Some of these tear and burst open, the contents spilling out like pin-cushions, some tumbling, to hang from the roof like golden ragged curtains..
Days go by….
What a mess! What a bloody disaster!
Quietly, one day, he raked and swept all loose and discarded material away.
Then, on another day, he ‘…stitched all together into a sloped honeycomb, a stubble patch…’
Finished, he gathered his tools, got on his bike and left.
The people who always know best,stood back confounded, slack-jawed, and gazed in disbelief at the perfectly finished, golden result.
The thatcher cycled on, leaving them ‘gaping at his Midas touch.’
A bloody great poem which provided me with excuse enough to witter on endlessly. I enjoyed every wittering syllable!
If you didn’t, well, I think you need a good slap on the leg!
Bespoke for weeks he turned up some morning
Unexpectedly, his bicycle slung
With a light ladder and a bag of knives.
He eyed the old rigging, poked at the eaves,
Opened and handled sheaves of lashed wheat-straw.
Next the bundled rods: hazel and willow
Were flicked for weight, twisted in case they’d snap.
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.
END
I’m told by people on line that this is also a poem about how Heaney himself assembles a poem. I’m ambivalent on this, but it sounds like thin ice to me.
Is Heaney saying that when he finishes a poem he leaves the public ‘…gaping at his Midas touch?’
Sounds like the usual suspects clutching at straws myself.