Pastoral

Pastorals have been a bit of a struggle for me in the past, mostly because I think I'm missing the point.  I'm still not sure I got the point.  I'm not sure if the problem that the definition of a pastoral is just so loose- relatively speaking- that I find the variety of possibility paralyzing rather than freeing, or just that I'm not entirely certain that I actually understand the definition.

Anyway, I still don't have my text.  It seems to have been lost in that abyss we call the postal service, although whether the problem is on the American end or the Irish.  Fortunately, Google yields no shortage of pastorals, so I had no difficulty finding a number to refresh myself.

I stumbled on this page of Frost and Heaney pastorals that I found lovely, although confusing.  After reading them, I was even more certain that I didn't actually understand what a pastoral was.

I especially liked Heaney's Blackberry Picking, for its vivid imagery in plain language- I vividly remember blackberry picking as a child just the same, and the end is bizarrely depressing considering the subject matter. Unfortunately, it also more or less cemented for me the fact that I have no idea what the message of a pastoral is meant to be/if there's meant to be one.

I tried, though.

The glow of the orange-bright

October leaves, a broken halo

‘round the head of a half-cocked angel: you,

homesick for heartsake.

Your fingers, knotted in mine,

awkward grasp, endearing angles,

numb but unwilling to give.

Someone belonged to the wrinkled smile

that took that photo, I’m sure,

but it’s all I remember

about anyone else.

The world glowed too bold,

blinded me to anyone but you.

Incidental rays of sunlight

blended with the blaze around us.

You carried me across the hill,

my hands tangled through your hair –

I was never, never letting go-

as we squinted in the sunshine,

spectors of crow’s feet

and smiles lines to come:

collateral beauty.