Treasure Island

Seamus Heaney

(April 13,1939 - August 30, 2013 / Castledàwson, County Londonderry)

The Tollund Man


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 working
Him 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 bog
Our 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 sleepers
Of 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 here in Jutland
In the old man-killing parishes
I will feel lost,
Unhappy and at home.

Submitted: Thursday, November 11, 2010
Edited: Thursday, November 11, 2010

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  • Amelia Westerside (11/29/2011 12:57:00 AM)

    A great poem by Heaney, especially when read coupled with 'Bogland' which thius site unfortunately doesn't have. Contextual knowledge is required to understand this poem, but it is a good summation of the struggles and desperation of the Northern Irish Catholics. (Report) Reply

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