Funeral Rites by Seamus Heaney under the cupmarked stones. Out of side-streets and bye-roads I purring family cars I shouldered a kind of manhood nose into line, stepping in to lift the coffins the whole country tunes of dead relations. to the muffled drumming They had been laid out of ten thousand engines. in tainted rooms, Somnambulant women, their eyelids glistening, left behind, move their dough-white hands through emptied kitchens shackled in rosary beads. imagining our slow triumph Their puffed knuckles towards the mounds. had unwrinkled, the nails Quiet as a serpent were darkened, the wrists in its grassy boulevard obediently sloped. the procession drags its tail The dulse-brown shroud, out of the Gap of the North the quilted satin cribs: as its head already enters I knelt courteously the megalithic doorway. admiting it all III as wax melted down and veined the candles, When they have put the stone the flames hovering back in its mouth to the women hovering we will drive north again behind me. past Strang and Carling fjords And always, in a corner, the coffin lid, the cud of memory its nail-heads dressed allayed for once, arbitration of the feud placated, with little gleaming crosses. imagining those under the hill Dear soapstone masks, kissing their igloo brows disposed like Gunnar had to suffice who lay beautiful inside his burial mound, before the nails were sunk though dead by violence and the black glacier of each funeral and unavenged. pushed away. men said that he was chanting verses about honour II and that four lights burned Now as news comes in in corners of the chamber: of each neighbourly murder which opened then, as he turned we pine for ceremony, with a joyful face customary rhythms: to look at the moon. the temperate footsteps of a cortège, winding past each blinded home. I would restore the great chambers of Boyne, prepare a sepulchre
Funeral Rites by Seamus Heaney I I shouldered a kind of manhood stepping in to lift the coffins of dead relations. They had been laid out in tainted rooms, their eyelids glistening, their dough-white hands shackled in rosary beads. Their puffed knuckles had unwrinkled, the nails were darkened, the wrists obediently sloped. The dulse-brown shroud, the quilted satin cribs: I knelt courteously admiting it all as wax melted down and veined the candles, the flames hovering to the women hovering behind me. And always, in a corner, the coffin lid, its nail-heads dressed with little gleaming crosses. Dear soapstone masks, kissing their igloo brows had to suffice before the nails were sunk and the black glacier of each funeral pushed away. II Now as news comes in of each neighbourly murder we pine for ceremony, customary rhythms: the temperate footsteps of a cortège, winding past each blinded home. I would restore the great chambers of Boyne, prepare a sepulchre under the cupmarked stones. Out of side-streets and bye-roads purring family cars nose into line, the whole country tunes to the muffled drumming of ten thousand engines. Somnambulant women, left behind, move through emptied kitchens imagining our slow triumph towards the mounds. Quiet as a serpent in its grassy boulevard the procession drags its tail out of the Gap of the North as its head already enters the megalithic doorway. III When they have put the stone back in its mouth we will drive north again past Strang and Carling fjords the cud of memory allayed for once, arbitration of the feud placated, imagining those under the hill disposed like Gunnar who lay beautiful inside his burial mound, though dead by violence and unavenged. men said that he was chanting verses about honour and that four lights burned in corners of the chamber: which opened then, as he turned with a joyful face to look at the moon.
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