Monday, October 29, 2007

Heaney’s “Mossbawn” and the Absences of Love



As a refugee within his own country, Seamus Heaney’s poetry is often concerned with his place among his own people. It is particularly concerned with the domestic, and, in exploring the placement of others in the domestic, he is placing himself in an analogous relationship to those about whom he is writing. In particular, “Mossbawn: Two Poems in Dedication” is a conscious nod to this act. “Mossbawn” particularly focuses on the idea of absences, which Heaney uses to achieve his own placement.

It is important to note from the beginning, these are two separate poems that are gathered together under the act of dedication. This helps rectify the disjunction between the two sections, the somewhat jarring lack of continuity. It also allows the poem to be analyzed as a single writing act—two separate poems, but one act of writing. For the brief purposes of this paper, I use the word act to connect the two separate poems. Even if they were written separately, with separate inspirations, methods, etc., Heaney’s grouping asks us to read them together, as if they were one poem. To borrow Trinitarian language, “Mossbawn” is two poems in person, but one in essence.

Subtitled “Two Poems in Dedication,” it is also dedicated to Heaney’s wife, Mary. This double dedication is the first indication of its self-awareness as a poetic act. It would not be unexpected for the reader to presume that the “she” in the first section is Mary both because of this dedication, and because of the poem’s imagistic intimacy. There is first in the poem a “sunlit absence” (1), but this absence is filled with leftovers of human action, “the helmeted pump in they yard” where “water honeyed / in the slung bucket” (2-5). Somebody—the “her” that first appears in line 10, presumably—has set the bucket under the faucet after using it. Some of the water originally poured for use remains. These leftovers signify both the work that has been done, and the absence of the worker. The sun which lights the absence also stands as a signifier of passing time. It hangs in the sky like a hung skillet cools against the wall after use (6-8). In line 9, Heaney makes a startling metaphor out of the wall the skillet is hung on. He calls it the “long afternoon.” As the skillet is the sun, the wall is the sky it moves across while it cools after the height of noonday heat. The noonday heat is the use of the skillet during daily work. Heaney’s larger metaphor connects the passage time in the workday with the work that is done during the day. It is a sparse, but tightly wound metaphor.

Heaney then moves indoors to the only person in the poem, whose absence has been pondered in the first part—a household matron at work about the house. After things have cooled some, she spends time baking, the oven rekindling the heat of the day as the scones rise. Again there is the image of passing time: “the ticking of two clocks” and rising scones (23-24). Again, the image is related to the work accomplished during the day. The tasks are the passing of time itself. Heaney invokes absence once more: “here is a space / again” (22-23). This time, however, it is the absence of action. It is waiting, a rest and Sabbath, similar to the rest of the skillet on the wall or the sun in the sky after a period of intense heat, intense work. While she waits, there is the evidence of work on her: whitened nails from the flour and “measling shins” from the heat of the stove (21). The intertwining here, between worker and work, evidence of each other left on both (c.f., the bucket left under the faucet with unused water in it) is similar to the intertwining of time and daily work. Both metaphors are connected in the various absences of the poem. It is in these absences that love lies. This is clinched by the last stanza, an image of a used tool:

And here is love

like a tinsmith’s scoop

sunk past its gleam

in the meal-bin. (25-28)

Part 2 of Heaney’s poem, “The Seed Cutters” is placed next to “Sunlight” to both continue the theme of absences, but also to place himself in the larger context of poetry. There is a self-conscious nod to Heaney’s own place as an artist in ‘painting’ this portrait. He says “Brueghel, / You’ll know them if I can get them true” (29-30). Brueghel is famous, of course, for his portraits of peasants and folk culture, something for which Heaney is also known. Brueghel is the perfect person to stand in for Heaney’s own art in this poem: the artist who stands by and steadfastly captures the actions of those around him, particularly those close to him. We know from Heaney’s other poetry that he often reserves the sonnet form for those with whom he is especially close (c.f., “Glanmore Sonnets”). The seed cutters of this poem are not named, in the same way Heaney does not name himself, though he does write in the first person, placing his work among the seed cutters. There is an echo here of Heaney’s poem “Digging,” where he explicitly compares the spade with which his father digs to his own pen. This comparison stresses both the mimetic and creative aspects of art. He is both imitating his father and doing the work of creation. Similarly in part 2 Heaney’s work is mirrored in the work of the seed cutters.

The anonymity of both workers and writer is itself explicitly mentioned in the final lines: “Under the broom / Yellowing over them, compose the frieze / With all of us there, our anonymities” (40-42). In this final line, Heaney places himself in the picture literally, describing the way in which the scene itself frames them, creates their picture. In many ways, Heaney is only a mimetic conduit for this framing. Yet he also actively paints himself into the portrait, both through his mention of Brueghel and in the way his own poetry is mirrored by the work of the seed cutters.

This anonymity is also a type of absence in the poem. Art is necessarily full of absences. Its mimetic nature creates a hollow shell, which, as Socrates points out, lacks the self, or reality of the original object (or scene, in this case). Yet from “Sunlight,” we see that it is in the absences—the leftovers of human activity, the Sabbath rest after the act of creation—that love lies. There is love, then, in the art of Heaney, through his absence of creation, similar to the way the love of the woman in “Sunlight” is demonstrated in her absences.

More importantly, it is in these gaps that Heaney places himself and his art. As I said, art is necessarily mimetic, a gap unto itself, but there is also the creative energy that seems to find its own restless place only in this gap. Heaney’s act of creation is itself love, a work of tribute. This love is the source of Heaney’s creative energy. Such energy is present in the act itself—the work of the poem, so to speak—but it is more present in the poem’s silence on the page, like the subject of “Sunlight.” One could ask if a poem exists on the page, and there is no one there to read it, is it still a poem? Or is it simply a collection of words? Heaney’s poetry makes the case that there is love in the absences, and it is in these absences where he finds himself. If a poem ceased to be a poem when there was nobody to read it, then Heaney, and the love in his poems, would cease to be also. It is in the silence of Heaney’s poetry that it speaks. It is in the waiting of the book on the shelf that his poetry exists, long after the heat of creativity has cooled, and only the leftovers of human action remain.

Appendix

Mossbawn: Two Poems in Dedication

for Mary Heaney

1. Sunlight

There was a sunlit absence. 1

The helmeted pump in the yard

heated its iron,

water honeyed


in the slung bucket 5

and the sun stood

like a griddle cooling

against the wall


of each long afternoon.

So, her hands scuffled 10

over the bakeboard,

the reddening stove


sent its plaque of heat

against her where she stood

in a floury apron 15

by the window.


Now she dusts the board

with a goose’s wing,

now sits, broad-lapped,

with whitened nails 20


and measling shins:

here is a space

again, the scone rising

to the tick of two clocks.


And here is love 25

like a tinsmith’s scoop

sunk past its gleam

in the meal-bin.



2. The Seed Cutters

They seem hundreds of years away. Brueghel,

You’ll know them if I can get them true. 30

They kneel under the hedge in a half-circle

Behind a windbreak wind is breaking through.

They are the seed cutters. The tuck and frill

Of leaf-sprout is on the seed potatoes

Buried under that straw. With time to kill, 35

They take their time. Each sharp knife goes

Lazily halving each root that falls apart

In the palm of the hand: a milky gleam,

And, at the centre, a dark watermark.

Oh, calendar customs! Under the broom 40

Yellowing over them, compose the frieze

With all of us there, our anonymities.

Incantations : Michael S. Harper, A Love Supreme


It is almost impossible to read Michael S. Harper and not feel as though you are missing out on some sort of Gnostic gospel of jazz. “Dear John, Dear Coltrane” seems to revel in its own incantatory song of praise. When you consider the history of the phrase “a love supreme,” the title and incantatory phrase from John Coltrane’s own album of praise, some of the “Gnostic” implications are clear. The poem “Dear John, Dear Coltrane,” indeed, much of Harper’s work, proceeds from history and art, particularly jazz, in manners both implicit and explicit. He does this in “Dear John, Dear Coltrane” in particular, modeling his lines and rhythm, as well as content on John Coltrane’s exultant album. This essay will draw the parallels between Michael S. Harper’s “Dear John, Dear Coltrane” and Coltrane’s album A Love Supreme, particularly focusing on the incantatory nature of the poem, which is, in essence, a song of praise.

It is helpful to understand the structure of Coltrane’s album, particularly “Pt. I – Acknowledgement.” The album/song opens with a gong and cymbal swell and Coltrane riffing on the pentatonic for a moment, before leaving the cymbals alone to hearken the entrance of Jimmy Garrison’s bass line, the riff from which the album takes its iambic name. Harper, too, begins with this as his epigraph in italics, setting it apart from the rest of the textual tone: “a love supreme, a love supreme / a love supreme, a love supreme.” It is an incantation, and it couches the rest of the poem’s meditations. That Harper’s language becomes almost a musical drumbeat is no surprise, as it mirror’s Coltrane’s saxophone in A Love Supreme, which almost speaks. Indeed, the fourth movement on Coltrane’s album is based on a poem he includes in the album’s liner notes, “Psalm.” When listening to “Pt. IV – Psalm” it is possible to hear Coltrane literally playing through the poem, continually coming back to the minor third, the incantatory dactyl “Thank you God.” Not only this, but Coltrane actually speaks the phrase “a love supreme” in the album’s first track, repetitively, incantatorially. While Harper’s epigraph certainly alludes to this unexpected moment in Coltrane’s album, it also alludes to the bass line continually thrumbing this rhythm throughout the first movement (excepting the moments when it is left to Coltrane’s saxophone alone).

Harper’s meditations on the many particulars of John Coltrane’s life make up the rest of the poem. The poem could be seen as an attempt to rectify the particulars of Coltrane’s life with the phraseology of his music that seems to sum things up so well. Harper opens the poem with the words “Sex fingers toes” (1). It could be a list, undifferentiated by the lack of commas to set the words apart, or it could be a mishmash of all those things: the use of it as a whole line indicating a singularity of these items. The latter seems more likely (and infinitely more suggestive), when one considers the contained completeness of the lines that follow:

in the marketplace

near your father's church

in Hamlet, North Carolina

witness to this love

in this calm fallow

of these minds,

there is no substitute for pain (2-8)

Each line is rhythmically contained, ending on downbeats, suggesting their end stop. This downbeat end stop continues until line 14, when he ends with the deliberately accented end stop, the first incantation “a love supreme;” (14). Although the line ends on an accent, it is grammatically completed with a semi-colon. But its accent, in addition to the slant rhyme with line 15, sends the reader into the next line with the incantation still echoing, the surprisingly haunting question: “what does it all mean?” (15). This question is perhaps the starkest line in the whole poem, both an angst ridden cliché and startlingly honest plea for understanding.

The next set of lines (16-24) serves to establish some more of Coltrane’s history, a picture of him playing A Love Supreme in Scranton, Pennsylvania. This section ends with the incantation, introduced with a colon, similar to its previous use with the poetic text at line 14. Both are loosely linked to the content of the previous phrase, grammatically worked into the sentence. There is a difference this time, though: “a love supreme—” (24). The long dash at the end indicates a sudden stop, a change in thought even. This dash also brings about the break in stanza, indicative of the larger shift.

The next stanza does not contain much in the way of literal personal history, although many implications could be drawn, especially if one is familiar with the life of John Coltrane, particularly his abuse of heroin. Again, there is the mishmash of words grouped in these lines:

thick sin 'tween

impotence and death, fuel

the tenor sax cannibal

heart, genitals, and sweat

that makes you clean—

a love supreme, a love supreme— (26-31)

The pace of the phrases increases, due to the assonance that appears in the first part of these lines. Harper also cuts the phrase “fuel the tenor sax cannibal heart” after fuel and cannibal. This too, adds to the increased pacing and shift in intonation. Harper’s intonations shift with the various meditations, always coming back to “a love supreme,” which shifts with the various tonalities of Harper’s language, the same way Coltrane’s saxophone explores the phrase’s various modalities through “Pt. I – Acknowledgement.” Once again, there is the almost frenetic mishmash of words: “sax cannibal / heart.” It is almost incantatory, almost senseless. The words together, though grammatically senseless, form a cumulative effect, like the repetition of “a love supreme.” It also helps establish the theme of body in the poem. This idea of body is continued with the phrase “genitals, and sweat / that makes you clean— / a love supreme, a love supreme—”. Again, slant rhyme connects the incantation with its neighboring line. Whereas before it connects it with the question “what does it all mean?”, here it is connected with phrases of the body, emphasizing this theme of body, particularly the sexuality of the body.

The theme of the sexual body continues in the third stanza, a playful one, repeating “cause I am” in response to every question as to why a particular person (Coltrane presumably) is so “funky,” “sweet,” and especially “black.” The sudden intrusion of this out-of-character stanza is set off by the dash after “a love supreme” in line 31, performing here a similar function to the identical phrase in line 24. The dash allows for the change in voice and intonation. In the third stanza, Harper is mixing themes of race and sexuality, creating another incantation within the incantation of the whole poem: “because I am.” More interestingly, he is mashing the lines together with little respect for grammar. The first word is capitalized, and there are question marks throughout, but the stanza is largely run together grammatically. This is indicated, primarily, by the lack of capitalization. The lines are cut in ways that would be expected, giving the sense of grammar to one who only hears it, but this whole stanza could be considered a continuation of the mishmash technique Harper employs throughout the poem.

Harper ends the third stanza, once again, with “a love supreme:” connecting it to the song as a whole, acting in many ways, like a chorus of sorts. This time, however, “a love supreme” is followed by a colon, a first in the poem. This colon connects the very final stanza with the penultimate stanza, even though there is a significant visual break between them, and the last stanza lacks the italics of the penultimate (excepting, of course, the final lines). Harper is subclausing the whole fourth stanza to the third, in a way. It is a reversal for the poem in that the song-like italics have always been subclaused to the generally fact-oriented non-italics. Before, all the song lyrics were proceeding from the facts of Coltrane’s life. Now, the finality of Coltrane’s end (which seems imminent), proceeds from his music. The tail is wagging the dog, so to speak, and the speaker is disappointed that Coltrane can barely play (43-45). This makes the final two phrases, incantations of “a love supreme, a love supreme—”, all the more poignant. It’s as if Coltrane is trying to gasp out the last phrases himself, but ultimately comes off “flat” (45). The poem comes full circle to the epigraph, only this time, the phrase is cut off by the dash, suggesting the possibility, the hope of more. But the reader is left hanging by the final dash, an interruption, rather than an end.

Harper’s poem, ultimately, is rooted in the body, the “sex fingers toes” of Coltrane’s life, the mashing of the saxophone keys that produces his music. And, ultimately, it is Coltrane’s body that betrays him, snuffs out his particulars, rumbles over him, the same way his incantation continues, even after he is done. Though “Dear John, Dear Coltrane” was written before Coltrane’s death, it foretells the continuation of the artist, his incantation that arises out of the particulars of his life.



Appendix

Dear John, Dear Coltrane


a love supreme, a love supreme
a love supreme, a love supreme

Sex fingers toes 1

in the marketplace

near your father's church

in Hamlet, North Carolina

witness to this love 5

in this calm fallow

of these minds,

there is no substitute for pain:

genitals gone or going,

seed burned out, 10

you tuck the roots in the earth,

turn back, and move

by river through the swamps,

singing: a love supreme, a love supreme;

what does it all mean? 15

Loss, so great each black

woman expects your failure

in mute change, the seed gone.

You plod up into the electric city—

your song now crystal and 20

the blues. You pick up the horn

with some will and blow

into the freezing night:

a love supreme, a love supreme—


Dawn comes and you cook 25

up the thick sin 'tween

impotence and death, fuel

the tenor sax cannibal

heart, genitals, and sweat

that makes you clean— 30

a love supreme, a love supreme—


Why you so black?

cause I am

why you so funky?

cause I am 35

why you so black?

cause I am

why you so sweet?

cause I am

why you so black? 40

cause I am

a love supreme, a love supreme:


So sick

you couldn't play Naima,

so flat we ached 45

for song you'd concealed

with your own blood,

your diseased liver gave

out its purity,

the inflated heart 50

pumps out, the tenor kiss,

tenor love:

a love supreme, a love supreme—

a love supreme, a love supreme—



A Love Supreme

John Coltrane

I will do all I can to be worthy of Thee O Lord. 1

It all has to do with it.

Thank you God.

Peace.

There is none other. 5

God is. It is so beautiful.

Thank you God. God is all.

Help us to resolve our fears and weaknesses.

Thank you God.

In You all things are possible. 10

We know. God made us so.

Keep your eye on God.

God is. He always was. He always will be.

No matter what . . . it is God.

He is gracious and merciful. 15

It is most important that I know Thee.

Words, sounds, speech, men, memory, thoughts,

fears and emotions — time — all related . . .

all made from one . . . all made in one.

Blessed be His name. 20

Thought waves — heat waves — all vibrations —

all paths lead to God. Thank you God.

His way . . . it is so lovely . . . it is gracious.

It is merciful — thank you God.

One thought can produce millions of vibrations 25

and they all go back to God . . . everything does.

Thank you God.

Have no fear . . . believe . . . thank you God.

The universe has many wonders. God is all.

His way . . . it is so wonderful. 30

Thoughts — deeds — vibrations, etc.

They all go back to God and He cleanses all.

He is gracious and merciful . . . thank you God.

Glory to God . . . God is so alive.

God is. 35

God loves.

May I be acceptable in Thy sight.

We are all one in His grace.

The fact that we do exist is acknowledgement

of Thee O Lord. 40

Thank you God.

God will wash away all our tears . . .

He always has . . .

He always will.

Seek Him everyday. In all ways seek God everyday. 45

Let us sing all songs to God

To whom all praise is due . . . praise God.

No road is an easy one, but they all

go back to God.

With all we share God. 50

It is all with God.

It is all with Thee.

Obey the Lord.

Blessed is He.

We are from one thing . . . the will of God . . . 55

thank you God.

I have seen God — I have seen ungodly —

none can be greater — none can compare to God.

Thank you God.

He will remake us . . . He always has and He 60

always will.

It is true — blessed be His name — thank you God.

God breathes through us so completely . . .

so gently we hardly feel it . . . yet,

it is our everything. 65

Thank you God.

ELATION — ELEGANCE — EXALTATION —

All from God.

Thank you God. Amen.