Created by eimearkelly3 almost 6 years ago
I Some day I will go to Aarhus To see his peat-brown head,The mild pods of his eye-lids, His pointed skin cap. In the flat country near by Where they dug him out, His last gruel of winter seeds Caked in his stomach, Naked except for The cap, noose and girdle,I will stand a long time. Bridegroom to the goddess, She tightened her torc on him And opened her fen, Those dark juices workingHim to a saint's kept body, Trove of the turfcutters' Honeycombed workings.Now his stained face Reposes at Aarhus. II I could risk blasphemy, Consecrate the cauldron bogOur holy ground and pray Him to make germinate The scattered, ambushed Flesh of labourers,Stockinged corpses Laid out in the farmyards, Tell-tale skin and teeth Flecking the sleepersOf four young brothers, trailed For miles along the lines.III Something of his sad freedom As he rode the tumbril Should come to me, driving, Saying the names Tollund, Grauballe, Nebelgard, Watching the pointing hands Of country people, Not knowing their tongue. Out there in JutlandIn the old man-killing parishes I will feel lost, Unhappy and at home.
Identity (more personal than Bogland)
mild - sense of personality
Has an impact on Heaney
Sexual elementSaint's - link to part two
Trove - suggests treasure
Consecrate - make holyCauldron bog - noun --> adjective (holds things)
Ritualised sacrifice primitive
Killing someone for religion not primitive?
CONNECTION BETWEEN HEANEY'S FEELINGS TO BE IN DENMARK AND THE TOLLUND MAN
Sad freedom - willing sacrifice
Lost, unhappy, and at home - paradox. Both reminiscent of Ireland and different. People are also killed for religion.
Imagery'The mild pods of his eye-lids,His pointed skin cap''His last gruel of winter seedsCaked in his stomach'
Impact on Heaney'I will stand a long time''Something of his sad freedomAs he rode the tumbrilShould come to me, driving'
Sacrifice 'Bridegroom to the goddessShe tightened her torc on him'
Treasure'Trove of the turfcutters''A saint's kept body'
Link to sectarian violence'I will feel lost,Unhappy and at home''.... prayHim to make germinateThe scattered, ambushedFlesh of labourersSockinged corpsesLaid out in farmyards,Tell-tale skin and teethFlecking the sleepersOf four young brothers, trailedFormiles along the lines.'
Identification with the Tollund Man'Something of his sad freedomAs he rode the tumbrilShould come to me, driving''Out here in JutlandIn the old man-killing parishesI will feel lost,Unhappy and at home'
The Tollund Man