Post by Mike LylePost by Marius HancuPost by Marius HancuWould you know what "tart-leafed" may mean here?
Could it mean "tart-leavened," i.e. "pungently leavened?"
We have our burnished bay tree at the gate,
Classical, hung with the reek of silage
From the next farm, tart-leafed as inwit.
Glanmore Sonnets, IX
by Seamus Heaney (p. 164)
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=178023
[...] I think you're on to something with "tart" as
flavor, because that's what bay leaves are famous for, a strong
spice. See, for example,
http://willowcreektraders.com/_wsn/page2.html
If you take a leaf off a bay tree and crush it, the whiff of aroma
is strong enough to make you jerk your nose back.
"Leavened" can't be the right word, though -- that's like yeast, a
leavening agent makes bread rise. MW11 doesn't give an etymology.
Now, "inwit"... It's not in MW11. Webster 1913 has "n. Inward
sense; mind; understanding; conscience. "
And probably intended to bring the word "bite" to mind. You hardly
ever see the word except in the title _The Agenbite of Inwit_, an
early attempt to english "The Remorse of Conscience". "Burnished"
and "classical" seem intended to evoke bronze, and to remind the
reader that the crown of bay leaves was awarded for victory. They
were sacred to Apollo, and may have been chewed by the Pythia at
Delphi. So I think he may be talking about poetry again.
[pitching it]
Post by Mike LyleI find the detail a little uneasy. I'm a fan, but Famous Seamus
isn't above talking mild bollocks in his long-established pretence
at still being a country boy. First, bay-leaves are aromatic and
taste tannically funny, but not tart: "tart" means "sour". But it's
obvious that it's the flavour meaning he intends--anything else
would be utter nonsense.
Yes. In the interests of science, I have just chewed a rather old
bayleaf, and report that we can add "bitter" to the list; this is also
the figurative meaning listed by a couple of dictionaries I have
checked with, so perhaps we may conclude that putting forth Apollo's
leaves is a bitter business. Or I could be raving.
Post by Mike LyleThe foliage of the bay tree is very dull,
not remotely "burnished", but the young growth is of a brighter
green.
There is no substitute for experience, and my experience of bay leaves
is all of the packaged kind. I was thinking of the dull green verging
on yellowy brown that I see in the dried leaves, and assuming that the
tree might be the same in autumn (when the silage is fermenting?), and
thinking that the Poet might polish this into something more lasting;
but Google Images confirms your point about the colour of the tree.
Post by Mike LyleI suppose we could think of the silage smell hanging about
and confusing the scent of the bay; but this tree's at the gate, so
my image is of wisps hanging from it, caught as the trailers
brushed past laden with the forage which was to be ensiled. The
characteristic silage smell doesn't develop until the forage has
fermented in the clamp; but there's no reason not to associate the
wisps of grass and stuff hanging on the tree with the smell
drifting across from next-door--it /is/ pervasive ...
... No. I think I may have got the silage wrong. If the neighbour
makes bale silage rather than clamped, he very likely takes the
bales from the yard out to cattle in the field. He'd probably do
this a bale at a time, carrying each one on a spike on his tractor,
so it would very likely brush against the bay tree, leaving some
hanging there.
I like your first take better, I think. I have a feeling the digested
leaves of grass may be more poetical than bucolic anyhow. And now I'm
smelling manure -- must be suggestion at work, unless it's the effect
of the bay leaf, or the Bear has just farted. This earthiness is
catching.
Post by Mike LyleI agree that "bite" is intended to rise in one's mind in response to
"inwit": "leaves as sharp as conscience".*
Biter-bitter. A bite of tart. Poet as (sacred) prostitute.
*Totally Off Topic* Has anybody here read Paul Park's _Starbridge
Chronicles_ novels, published in the 80s? I reread my copies
recently, and was struck again by the strangeness of his invention
(especially of the Antinomials) and the power of some of his writing.
"Aspe. Biter Aspe," a chilling moment in the first book, _Soldiers of
Paradise_. I don't suppose they'll have time to come round again,
though; maybe I'll pass them on to one of my nephews.