The Poetics of Witnessing in the Works of Seamus Heaney

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The Poetics of Witnessing in the Works of Seamus Heaney

Seamus Heaney
In his poem ‘Punishment’ from the poetry collection North(1975), Seamus Heaney picks up the voice of a witness who is suspended between the possibilities of love, silence, voyeurism, outrage and above all, the understanding of the process of violence that brings the ‘numbered bones’ of the corpse it describes to its present state.

While it would no doubt be too obvious a strategy to read Heaney’s personal voice in that of the speaker of this poem, there are nonetheless resonances in this state of paralysis between mutually irreconcilable positions that brings to mind Heaney’s description of his childhood in the speech ‘Crediting Poetry’ (1995) where he recounts how his child-self was ‘already being schooled for the complexities of his adult predicament, a future where he would have to adjudicate among promptings variously ethical, aesthetical, moral, political, metrical, sceptical, cultural, topical, typical, post-colonial and, taken all together, simply impossible.’

‘Punishment’ reproduces the torment of this sensation of experiencing multiple promptings at once, to the point that even if we resist reading it as a go-to for some mirage of the authentic poetic voice or something as naïve as that, it still functions as a explication and example of the kind ofconcerns that created the poetic voice of Seamus Heaney, a voice that narrates self-consciously, ‘weighing and/ weighing/ [its] responsible tristia’ (‘Singing School’).

“I almost love you
but would have cast, I know,
the stones of silence.
I am the artful voyeur
of your brain’s exposed
and darkened combs,
your muscles’ webbing
and all your numbered bones.” (Punishment)

Richard Kearney, in his book Transitions, elaborates on this oscillating, equidistant quality of Heaney’s poetry when he says that it is always ‘vacillating between opposing viewpoints, looking in at least two directions at once’ (Kearney 102). While I think this is completely correct in itself, it stops shorts of describing what Heaney’s language actively accomplishes. To call it ‘vacillation’ is to see witnessing and universal accountability of vision as an inadequacy and a half-hearted habit. It is neither. If poetic language does indeed ‘construct and deconstruct’ identity (103), then Heaney’s particular brand of poetic language deliberately infects identities with one another, until their extant overlap and ambivalence of border becomes apparent to us.

Heaney occupies a deliberately hesitant, liminal position. He declares he is ‘neither internee nor informer; /An inner émigré, / grown long-haired / And thoughtful’ (‘Singing School’). This liminality, which has earned him controversy—including being called an ‘artful dodger’ when it comes to political responsibility—renders him uniquely sensitive to the troubled and contradictory vulnerabilities in all sides of the conflict that he documents through his poetry.
Many of his poems, such as ‘Digging’, ‘Bog Queen’, ‘Strange Fruit’ and ‘Station Island’ to name but a few, undertake the task of relentlessly witnessing both the mundane and the dreadful: two types of sight that we usually avert our eyes from. Heaney insists on looking at ‘the cavings of the stomach/ and socket’ (‘Bog Queen’), a ‘girl’s head like an exhumed gourd’ (Strange Fruit) and the ‘black glacier’ of funerals (‘Funeral’): disparate as they are, all of these images exemplify the startling turn of metaphorical visuality that characterises Heaney’s descriptions. In each instance, the description of a corpse or a post-mortem sight is crafted to be seen differently. Heaney’s language introduces an immediacy that both momentarily strips them of their historical, political and social context but also zooms into the details with such an intensity of gaze that what appears to us as a result of the heightened seeing is almost completely unrelated to the original fact of a peat-preserved corpse or a sad funeral.

Establishing the fact that Heaney does indeed use poetry to perform witnessing of atrocities and their ‘whitewashing’ into beauty brings us to new questions. The first is that old question we have been grappling with in our Global Poetry seminars: exactly how does poetry (as opposed to prose or drama) contribute to this quest for remembrance and acknowledgement? Secondly, like the fictive voice of the ghostly Colum, are we, the readers, too forced to ask why there is at all any need to aestheticize what is ‘ugly’, whether that ugliness be of the ‘wet, bottomless center’ of the bog land or the slaughter of Catholics in Ireland.

A clue may lie in Heaney’s own words in his introduction to the 2000 translation of Beowulf. On pg. xxi of this book, Heaney talks about how ‘[a]t…moments of lyric intensity, the keel of poetry is deeply set in the element of sensation while the mind’s lookout sways metrically and far-sightedly in the element of pure comprehension.’ It is telling that these lines elucidate the end of Beowulf where the hero is given his funeral: an elegiac passage much like the Strand at Lough Beg and its counter-poetic chapter from ‘Station Island’, section VIII. The word ‘comprehension’ is the most striking one for me.
Heaney seems to be suggesting that while on the level of lyric, poetry is an aesthetic mode, in moments of lyrical success, it can also become a way towards comprehension of what would be otherwise incomprehensible. Perhaps in one aspect, the lack of comprehensibility can be linked to the unutterability and repetitiveness that we associate with trauma. To use Freud’s term for it, ‘melancholia’ is a mode of grappling with loss that involves ‘profoundly painful dejection, cessation of interest in the outside world, loss of the capacity to love, inhibition of all activity and the lowering of self-regarding feelings to a degree that finds utterance in self-reproaches and self-revilings’ (Freud 224). In the passage from ‘Station Island’ quoted above, a sense of not deserving the love of the departed and arrested movement (lying on bed, ‘atoning’) pervades language. And yet, paradoxically, by choosing having the dead reappear and utter the accusations at the poet, the poem frees itself from this melancholia and reaches a moment where both the ‘right to look’ on part of the poet and that on the of part of the gazed-at corpse has been defended. In this way, mourning not only dispels melancholia, but in its lyrical intensity, joins the imagist, assembled nature of visuality and the accountability underwritten in the discourse of visibility.
In conclusion, as Heaney observed in ‘Crediting Poetry’, he always wanted the ‘truth to life to possess a concrete reliability, and rejoiced most when the poem seemed most direct, an upfront representation of the world it stood in for or stood up for or stood its ground against’. This obsessive engagement with poetry as an ‘upfront representation’ takes us to Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak and her useful differentiation between representation as “speaking for” as a representative (vertreten) contra representation as “re-presentation” (darstellen) in her essay “Can the Subaltern Speak?” (1988).
Heaney’s poetry flits between these two modes representation and each mode determines whether his truth speaks the truth to life for the world ‘it stood in’ or for the world it ‘stood up for’. In ‘Bog Queen’, he speaks through the fictive voice of the bog queen committing representation in the sense of vertreten; in ‘Strand at Lough Beg’, ‘Singing School’, ‘Punishment’ and countless other poems, he speaks for others and even stands up for them. And yet both modes of representation are woven together by a central commitment to compassion and the need to make space for the voices of others who are absent to his readers. In other words, Heaney’s poetics bring to life those who cannot speak for themselves, and it is in this invocation that occurs irrespective of geographical, political and temporal boundaries that his planetary humanism lies.

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