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Bogland by Seamus Heaney   
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  Bogland

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7.1 /10
(27 votes)



  for T. P. Flanagan

We have no prairies
To slice a big sun at evening--
Everywhere the eye concedes to
Encrouching horizon,

Is wooed into the cyclops' eye
Of a tarn. Our unfenced country
Is bog that keeps crusting
Between the sights of the sun.

They've taken the skeleton
Of the Great Irish Elk
Out of the peat, set it up
An astounding crate full of air.

Butter sunk under
More than a hundred years
Was recovered salty and white.
The ground itself is kind, black butter

Melting and opening underfoot,
Missing its last definition
By millions of years.
They'll never dig coal here,

Only the waterlogged trunks
Of great firs, soft as pulp.
Our pioneers keep striking
Inwards and downwards,

Every layer they strip
Seems camped on before.
The bogholes might be Atlantic seepage.
The wet centre is bottomless.

Seamus Heaney


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  Comments about this poem (Bogland by Seamus Heaney )
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  Gerry Waters  (12/3/2008 3:23:00 AM)

Is this poem about Fermanagh where Flanagan is from?
  Johnny Muir  (6/17/2008 7:49:00 AM)

Hi, I work for the BBC in Belfast and am working on a documentary to mark Seamus Heaney's 70th birthday. His work is studied (and written about in exams) by people all over the world and I am trying to find out what impact it has them. In this poem he writes about the landscape of Co Derry, Ireland - yet it clearly has a resonance far beyond. I would love to hear anyone's comments on what Heaney's poetry means to them. Tell me about individual poems that have made an impact on you and why!
Cheers,
johnny.muir@bbc.co.uk
  Smart Smart  (5/30/2005 3:15:00 AM)

this is a very cool poem with very cool stuff in it

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7/4/2009 2:46:02 AM . You Are Here: Bogland by Seamus Heaney

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