The Significance of ‘Home’ in Seamus Heaney Romy Dawson Home has always been more than mere domestic setting in Seamus Heaney’s work. The people, traditions, values, sounds, noises, and smells that emerged from his Ulster farmstead and surrounding landscape have been not only central to his identity as a Northern Irish poet, but absolutely integral to his creative well-spring. This essay will assess the abiding impact of Mossbawn, Heaney’s first and arguably most influential home, on his work. Looking at poems from four different collections – Death of a Naturalist (1966), Wintering Out (1972), North (1975), and Station Island (1984) – will allow for a widespread consideration of Mossbawn’s legacy. We find an interesting interweaving of fondness, warmth, fear, sometimes even disgust, when Heaney recollects life (and death) on the farm: an intermittently destabilized pastoral idyll. He was, in William Wordsworth’s words, ‘Foster’d alike by beauty and by fear’,1 both cradled and confined by the landscape, and community, that raised him. The Death of a Naturalist One of Heaney’s earliest memories of home is ‘Churning Day’. The sixth poem in Death of a Naturalist, it concerns the almost alchemic process by which his family convert milk into butter. Its early stages are arduous and chaotic: A thick crust, coarse-grained as limestone rough-cast, hardened gradually on top of the four crocks … After the hot brewery of gland, cud and udder, … …the hooped churn was scoured with plumping kettles and the busy scrubber echoed daintily[.]2 Studies • volume 110 • number 439 322 Harsh guttural consonants welcome us into the Heaney home, bringing withthemallthecommotionandmalodourofmilkfermentation.The‘clamour and clang of the opening’,3 as Neil Corcoran puts it, is intensified by the use of molossus (‘crust, coarse-grained’), obstructing smooth readings of the line. The ‘hot brewery’ of the cow’s stomach is a melting-pot of bodily juices: ‘gland, cud and udder’. Internal rhyme between these last two words acts to emphasize the organic, rancid origins of the milk. Any potential undertones of grubbiness, however, are quickly ousted by Heaney, who reports of two cleaning methods undertaken: both abrasively hot (‘plumping’) water and ‘busy’, dainty human hands are used to prepare the old-fashioned equipment for butter-making (21). Movement picks up as the ‘four crocks’ are removed from their restingplaces and assembled for the main event.Young Heaney watches, spellbound, as pots ‘spilled their heavy lip/of cream, their white insides, into the sterile churn’. Mild disgust and sanitation collide yet again as buttermilk, equated with innards, enters the disinfected wooden churn. Sibilance established in these two lines is maintained throughout the stanza: ‘The staff, like a great whisky muddle … mother took first turn … slugged … blistered … spattered’, carrying in its sputter the slipping and sliding of ‘flabby milk’ (21). At last, exhausted muscles (‘Arms’), sore skin (‘blistered’) and ruined ‘clothes bear fruit, and nuggets of butter are seen magically floating to the surface: ‘finally gold flecks/began to dance’. Just like the crocks that ‘spil[l]’ themselves into the churn, these ‘flakes’ dance of their own accord. A sort of mystical harmony is achieved through these self-generated movements. ‘[H]eavy and rich’, this butter is extracted from the milk in a gold rush of excitement: ‘fished’ and ‘straine[d]’ by dexterous hands until it sits like ‘gilded gravel’ in the bowl (21–2). The scene is almost otherworldly, a fairytale memoir of Mossbawn and its rituals. The unpleasant aftermath of churning day is accepted with a perverse satisfaction: ‘The house would stink long after churning day, / acrid as a sulphur mine’. Like lucky beneficiaries whose risks have paid off, the family ‘mov[e] with gravid ease, / [their] brains turned crystals full of clean deal churns’. With the ‘plash and gurgle … pat and slap’ still reverberating in his mind, young Heaney is now ‘gravid’ with inspiration; his poetic intentions rendered paradoxically ‘crysta[l]’ clear by the frenzy of yesterday’s ventures (22). ‘[W]et lumps’ close the poem, completing the string of jugular assonance throughout: ‘cud … udder … butter … scrubber … muddler … plunged … Studies • volume 110 • number 439 323 The Significance of ‘Home’ in Seamus Heaney slugged … thumped’. Heaney has dug into ‘the very cud of...
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