![]() ![]() ![]() With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned Until the tinkling bottom had been covered We trekked and picked until the cans were full ![]() Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots. Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was in it You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet (We try to downplay the biographical.)įor a full week, the blackberries would ripen.Īmong others, red, green, hard as a knot. I will let them find that out on their own. I did not tell them the facts of Plath’s life or how near in time the poem was written before her suicide. While both are dark, the latter is much darker. One by Seamus Heaney, one by Sylvia Plath. We read two poems about Blackberries the other day. ![]()
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