The Seed Picture

Poetry is not my forté, but I love it! In the past, when I would come across a poem that I really liked (even if I wasn't sure of its meaning), I would copy it into a journal. My own attempts at poetry have been miserable - they usually end up as crumpled pieces of paper forever in the garbage.

The following is the first stanza of The Seed Picture by Medbh McGuckian.

This is my portrait of Joanna – since the split

The children come to me like a dumb-waiter,

And I wonder where to put them, beautiful seeds

With no immediate application . . . the clairvoyance

Of seed-work has opened up

New spectrums of activity, beyond a second home.

The seeds dictate their own vocabulary,

Their dusty colours capture

More than we plan,

The mould on walls, or jumbled garages,

Dead flower heads where insects shack . . .

I only guide them not by guesswork

In their necessary numbers,

And attach them by the spine to a perfect bedding,

Woody orange pips, and tear-drop apple,

The banana of the caraway, winkled peppercorns,

The pocked peach, or water lily honesty,

The seamed cherry stone so hard to break.

Born in Belfast, Northern Ireland, McGuckian gives a good modern perspecive of women's lives in Ireland. (This poem speaks to me about women's identity - More to come...)

Click here for more information about Medbh McGuckian.