I don’t know who decided to give Hootie McBard (wearing CrazyLanea’s brand fashions) a Tiki God, but I’m pretty sure this might make the world explode, if repeated.

Fionn and Alerin, post smashy smash.

Maeve and Sedech’s son Gunner, 15.  This was his first year at camp, and I think he had a great time.  We were certainly very glad he came.  I am regularly astounded by what nice kids my friends are raising.  In addition to being funny and helpful, Gunner won all sorts of contests, including a youth fighting something or other and a knife-throwing contest.  The details might be fuzzy, but the pride we all felt for him was mammoth.

Keegan,

And Richard, two of CrazyLanea brand’s top models.

I don’t think I can explain much more, really.  I can show you what I brought home, now that the skies have cleared and I can take decent photos.  Gimme a minute, here, and I’ll see what I can throw together.

We’ve been doing this for years.  It’s a recreation of an event from the Iron Age that was recorded in a Roman history (no, I don’t know which one–Aes, do you remember?)  The non-combatant women of a tribe dressed in white with copper belts.  They danced around their warriors, chanting something that the witnesses couldn’t understand.  The warriors grew frenzied.  Battle ensued.

So Maddog wakes everyone up by drumming softly at their doors.

Folks get woaded.

Etaine painting Suibhne.

(I wove her belt)

Many of our friends walk down from Canada, like a sleepy Edain, ready to fight:

And Morgan and Shay, who I think had coffee before they walked down the hill:

Both pretty darn bright-eyed, for the crack of dawn.

And our friends from Tir Thalor:

Who make quite a show

This year, Lily suddenly turned into a warrior:

And even worked up a ferocious face for her new sport.

Woading going on all the while:

Have I mentioned that our circle has a pretty high percentage of women who fight?  It’s still a pretty rare thing, I guess.  It just makes sense to us.

Once everyone is ready to go, we process up the big darn hill, singing and drumming, and, you know, awesome-ing (and not in a “that hot dog was awesome” sense, a la Eddie Izzard).  Then we group the fighters together in a group, and we women in white dance around them, chanting something we chant.

I’d show you more, but I can’t both participate and photograph this happening.  Other people certainly do, though.  I know our friend Ursus has taken some great shots, because he’s taken great shots of everything.  Darter chronicled it last year.  Gwyneth got it the year previous.  It’s also been recorded by a particular photographer who regularly attempts to profit off of us and our friends but refuses to give us free or discounted prints and has never once recognized the need to obtain a model’s release.  Boo to her.  We are not museum exhibits–we are people who deserve kindness and fair treatment.

As you can see, I did a lot of hand-sewing while we were in the woods.

I also finished the mother of all inkles for Drac.  He loved it.

Despite its flaws.

Oh, that edge is killing me.  If I had to do it all over again, I wouldn’t weave silk and wool of alternating thicknesses during such a humid spell in DC.  It was an interesting challenge.  I think my loom needs some serious attention.

But I’m glad it’s done and I’m happy to have pleased a friend.  And, because he’s a true friend, he’s promised to inform everyone who asks where he got it that his dear friend Lanea made it, and then tragically lost all of her fingers in a tuba-related accident.  Oh, the humanity!

I am actually really excited to do some more weaving, just not to repeat that particular project too soon.

Anubh taught a class on flax preparation:

(Ignore that hideous tent in the background–we are apparently still not permitted to force the neighbors to get canvas tents.  Sigh.)

We also had classes on Bodhran (a type of frame drum used in Celtic music), the role of Bards in Celtic Society (guess who taught that one), Nalbinding (taught by our favorite new professional Viking Gullveig), and foods at ancient Celtic celebrations.

We also have a friendly little competition, wherein folks bring in things that they’ve made, explain the techniques used in creating them and the research behind the objects, and then we gather together some smarty-pantses and have them pick winners in experience-based categories.
Theses tables are full of the entries:

Here are some wonderful nalbinded (I want that word to be nalbound, but the -ed is correct) socks and a hat that Keva made, some handmade shoes and a satchel, a small felted carped, and a handmade stola, which is an overgarment a Roman woman would wear.

Each year, we see some amazing things in the competition.  This year, it seems like most of the early period re-enactors were really obsessed with Scandinavia.  Raginheld the Moneyer (she makes great coins) made these beauties:

Which are cast silver repros of some great Viking pieces.  She wore the one on the right for us, and I immediately begged her to make me a set.  So cool.

And here are some great Viking-style lampwork bead and wire-knitting necklaces, and amazing set of turtle brooches with the attendant necklaces and accouterments (winners, both).  I wish I had had a chance to take more detailed photos, but I was running out of memory and had to run off to teach.  Sigh.

At the far end are some display items, including a sprang sweater Gullveig made.  A few people just display some things they have that are likely to assist other folks in their research:

Like the wonderful natural dye display that Etaine’s sister Michelle made for her.  Each of those hanks (I believe they’re hand-spun) is dyed using natural dyes available relatively early in history.  Michelle raised most of the plants herself.  Michelle is a master weaver, and she is currently in Kyrgyzstan teaching the Kyrgyz their own lost weaving techniques.  Repressive government destroys folk culture.  Awesome artist returns it, because she’s just that kind of person.

Let’s just think about that for a second.  The thinking may involve either jumping up and down with excitement or abject jealousy.  For me, it involves both.

I need to go lie down before I can write anymore.  I learn so much on this trip every year that it takes my brain weeks to process it all.  And I also wake up in our Cape Cod thinking I’m still sleeping in my tent.  The brain-space all of this stuff takes up is immense.

So, we host a thing called the Bog Olympics every now and again.  I think maybe it was originally Tara’s idea?  Here’s how it works: we gather people from all over together before the madness really starts there at summer camp; have them play a bunch of historic games; give out prizes; rinse and repeat.  It’s a hoot.  It’s a great way to meet people from other camps.  It’s like field day, but with wrestling.  And the races generally involve beer.  This year, Morgan lit the fire under our butts and we brought back the fun.  Folks came from all over the place.  We had kids’ events, we had new events.  We had a lot of fun. 

We had torc tossing, which is strangely similar to horseshoes:

The torcs were made on site, of course, because we have smiths. 

We had a wacky kind of wrestling, which Ot from Michigan brought us.  The two competitors must keep at least one foot on the shield.  Here are Moragh (facing the camera) and Anubh squaring off:

And then trying to lift each other’s feet:

And then with the pushing. 

As is generally the case, Morgan won the women’s wrestling.  She is an amazing wrestler.  I think she and her sister used to mix it up a lot as kids.

We had a fire-starting contest, which was a first.  Each competitor gets a pile of kindling.  They have to use a flint, tinder, and a striker to start the fire.  It’s a very tricky skill to learn.  Our four competitors lined up on either side of a piece of twine tied between two iron uprights.  The first person to light a fire big enough to burn through the string wins.  I think this is the coolest game we’ve ever ever had.  Ever.  Here’s Moragh, throwing sparks.  Note the yellow squished chicken?

Here is a little film of the end of the contest.  The horrible sound in the background is that damn rubber chicken.  I’m so glad the chicken went to Dalraidia.  Clicky to watch:  fire-starting contest

And, of course, we played hunkerhausen.  It’s a very old game, wherein the competitors stand on logs or stones, holding a slack rope between them.  On go, they feed the rope back and forth, trying to either take the rope from the other player or to encourage them to lose balance.  It’s a game of balance and strategy.  It’s hilarious each and every time. 

Here are Richard (a ringer–he taught us the game) and Cellagh playing, if you want to see it in motion: hunkerhausen

Gunner gave Richard a run for his money (I made the clothes Richard is wearing)

And, of course, we had a beer race.  Each participant fills their mug from the keg, runs to the back of Tuatha de Bhriain (great neighbors of ours) spilling as little as possible, drinks the beer, refills at the TdB keg, runs back to our bar, and drains the mug again.   


(The blond guy with the woad is Ot–we were very glad to meet him this year.  We’ve never had someone from outside our immediate circle bring in a game before.  He even brought a prize and reffed his wrestling matches).  Moragh was freaking amazing.  Man, that girl can ruuuuun.  She was there and back in lightening speed.  But one of the boys was apparently more thirsty that she was.  I don’t care.  I think she won anyway.

No, I haven’t lost my mastery of English, or of spelling.

Some friends of ours have  a business called Viking U like.  We don’t get all of the guys every year, because they all live in Europe and do a much more robust business there at Viking re-enactment events.  But some assortment of the guys comes to our summer camp every year.  This year, we got Alban and Scott.

This is neither Alban nor Scott.  This is a painted buck skull, hanging from their tent pole.  What can I say?  I like skulls.

Right, this is Scott:

I didn’t get any decent pictures of Alban.  He was moving too fast.  He’s a really talented silver smith.

You wouldn’t know it to talk to him, but Scott is actually American.  He’s been living abroad for so long he sounds German.  Scott travels all over Eastern and Northern Europe tracking down artisans who work in lost arts.  He’s the source of the amazing silver lunik I bought last year.

And the great high holy Finnish elk antler spindle.  And my salt box.  And my birch boxes.

And many other really beautiful items that my friends have walked away with.   Scott knows craft, and is constantly forced to explain to Estonian and Polish and other artisans, in languages he doesn’t speak fluently, that their work is exquisite, that he wants to buy lots of it, and that they need to start paying themselves fairly.  He also really does his homework, so he normally has all sorts of great stories about his wares.

(I made that linen plaid tunic Bodwin is wearing)

Ignore the DHL box–they were still setting up when the masses descended.  I just wanted to admit to my serious, crushing tattoo envy.  Why isn’t that on my leg?

Unlike years past, I didn’t actually buy all that much from Viking u Like this year.  Instead, I came away with a lot of inspiration.  A few friends have been herding me towards studying and making Viking goodies.  And just look at the bar that’s been set.

No, really look at it.  It’s exquisite.  He’s finding some of the best felt I’ve ever seen.

But the thing that really floored me was the horto-bachi-bichkos.  I have no idea how that’s actually supposed to be spelled, but I know I have the phonetics correct.  I know because people would yell “horto-bachi-bichko” every time they walked past the tent.

Horto-bachi-bichkos are little rawhide boxes that are shaped on a last.  The lid slides up and down on the thongs on either side.  When they show up in graves, they’re generally attached to men’s belts, and they often have handy little items like small knives and flint and tinder sets in them.  A few that Scott had were particularly well made:

Tooled rawhide.  Who knew I would want to tool rawhide so badly?  So now I need a last.  I think I should start trying to bribe the wood-workers, so that when the last is made I still have all my fingers.

Since many of us have been involved in one form or another of living history or medievalism for pushing 20 years or so, we’ve got friends and sister-groups all over the place.  Many of them camp within spitting distance of us, there in the bog.  Some of our friends, however, camp so far away they may as well be in Canada.

After a few days of set up and staying home, we decided to walk up to Tir Thalor’s camp to ask them if they wanted to fight with us again.  This trip includes a lot of fighting, an aspect of this particular hobby I’m trying to forget I like.  Anyway, their group is based in New York, and they’re less a living history group than a fantasy sort of group.  And their camp is really really a long walk.  Uphill.  But it’s all good.  They make good mead.  Really good mead.  It means something when I say that–I think most mead is only good for catching flies, since I’m not at all interested in picking up 14 year old girls who like D & D.  And once I catch flies, I feel like a jerk.  So I really dislike most mead.  But Tir Thalor’s mead is worth walking to Canada for. 

Before the walk, there was the primping.  Since we were going up to Canada to hire Tir Thalor, we needed to get out the good stuff, and carry pointy things, and maybe write up a bit of a set list.  Etaine (pronounced EEE-thaw-nyuh, by the way) painted up most of us.  Here she is working on Alerin, who had just gotten a fantastic felt hat from Liadan.
 


She makes the best felt. 

And, you see that black something or other on Etaine’s shoulders?  You know what that is?  It’s a crow-feather cloak.  For bardic bombast, of course.  Fionn made it.  Woot.  I ‘ll have to photograph it properly if I can ever get close enough to it without getting nipped on the finger–the feather tips are curled so prettily.

Ruadhan (notice the Campari-colored hair?) got a lovely, simple little horn and spiral.

Bodwin, well Bodwin stood around looking like he might stab someone.  I don’t know what this expression was about. 

And then we congregated for a while, waiting for the slowbees . . . and apparently Scott needed to do a little dance.   

I made that tunic he’s wearing, of course, and the pants.  Udutai made the boots.   And I made the skirt Etaine is wearing–very nice purple linen.  I think maybe she wears it to work too sometimes.  And I think I made that red tunic Cellagh is wearing–it’s actually Moragh’s, but he kept swiping it.  It’s a very nice silk noile.  Whenever we’re standing around or lazing, I take a little mental inventory of what items I’ve made that are on my friends.  I shoot for 100%.  It happens once in a while.  I’ve got about 50% of the folks in this gathering.

This is Fionn in the center, the maker of the feather-cloak.  Cellagh is wearing the boar-tusk necklace because he was doing war-chief biznazz.  I don’t know why he’s looking a bit deranged, but it may have something to do with a critical lack of beer in his redonkulous mug there.  And he’s got one of Richard’s repro helmets on for no particular reason.  Again, blame it on his thirst. 

Anyway, we then walked to Canada.  Etaine and I sang some, and Fiona from Tir Thalor sang, and we tried to take some great pictures of the moon but none of us were still enough to capture it correctly with our fake slow-shutter settings on our digicams.  But the moon was gorgeous, framed in their gate. 

So we got there, we camped temporarily on the flat while Scott and Bodwin wandered around making cryptic gestures and grumbling, and we had a metric f-ton of fun with our friends, the pyromaniacs dear, dear freaks Celts. 

And then we drank Marconis.  I was tasked with helping Etaine "get her blotto on."  I did my job.   And we noticed that Ruadhan, despite loathing Campari, is actually the Campari fairy.  You’ll see why soon.

And then we slept a little.

And then Ruadhan and I got up and went grocery shopping.

When we came back, we found this:


Which is actually quite a modest platform.  I’ve been on much higher, larger, downright terrifying structures in the woods.  Well, they would have been downright terrifying to other people, I think.  I just viewed them as great dance floors.  We lucked just the right trees in a very good spot.  The fellahs added a 10 x 10 piece of real estate to the hill, and I got to live on a very level, very safe floor that was highly unlikely to flood, even if my Mom visited us.

Have I mentioned my Mom draws floods?  It’s freaky.  She denies it, but it’s true.  Arizona should beg her to visit.  I hope that that particular trait is not heritable. 

Back to the story.

The downstairs camp was filling in nicely:


Here you can see one of our views from the Crassy Knoll.  That’s Anubh’s tent we’re staring right at in the center, with the edge of Etaine’s tent over on the left and Cellach and Moragh’s fly behind.  We like seeing just white canvas.  We like it a lot. 

So we started getting properly set up, and out came the KF banner:


Which is always a site for sore eyes. 

Richard brought out some duds I made for him a couple of years ago:


He’s developed some system, as have a lot of the guys, that seems to line up with my Grandpap’s concept of "Sunday go to meeting clothes."  Apparently this tunic cannot be work until his tent (in the background there) and his shop are set up.  I guess that means it’s a good tunic.  I think I made the pants too.

I’ll warn you now that I didn’t do so well taking pictures of my friends wearing clothes I made them.  Sorry.  I’ll keep trying.

So, as I mentioned, we got a trailer for the camping trip.  Sounds crazy, I know, but this is the first time in years Scott and I have been able go for the same number of days, so we wanted to take just one vehicle.  Nothing makes us more exhausted than packing up at the end of the trip knowing that we both have to drive a car home.  And we needed to take lots of lumber so we could live in the trees, and we also needed to be ready to transport some communal stuff if the need arose.  Scott picked up a trailer, and, lo and behold, it matched our dog.  (Which I would show you, but Typepad is yanking my chain: The trailer has a picture of a Chesapeake Bay Retriever on it, and Kayo is half-Chessie, so matchy match.  The trailer didn’t make either of us miss Kayo any less.)

Since all the cool kids are doing it, here’s the Saturday sky.

Now that’s the right kind of weather for a vacation.  79 degrees, blue sky, nice breeze.  Ahhhh.

This is one of my favorite sites in Pennsylvania.  I’ve loved this barn since I was a kid, despite the fact that I’ve also hated tobacco since I was a kid.  My Grandpap was never sure how long ago this was painted, but it’s been this way for a long time.

Now for the really important stuff.  Those of you who spent a lot of time on the PA Turnpike as kids may remember the old Davey Crockett Museum, which was in Breezewood right before the ramp to the Westbound turnpike.  We would torture our Mom until she took us there.  It had a giant statue of Davey Crockett on top, of course, and it was full of antique gruesome taxidermied beasties.  We loved it.  Mom hated it.  It closed sometime in the 80s, and I guess I figured all the stuff went away when a gift shop moved in.  How wrong I was.

When Scott and I started hanging out a lot, he mentioned that he and several of the other KF always stopped at the old Museum on the way North, and that the new owners had made it even creepier.  Visiting the museum was a vital tradition, never to be broken, and if I wanted to spend time with Scott, I had to get on board.  So visit we do, every time we need to get on the Turnpike.  And, strangely, it is even creepier now.  No seriously, it is.

They still call it a Museum, though I don’t know who Crawford is or why he/she doesn’t deserve an apostrophe.  Much more sparkly than when we were kids, right?  Lots more crap?  This is the side view.

All the best museums sell shot glasses and t-shirts from all 50 states, lemme tell ya.

This is when you should change the channel if the thought of hanging a taxidermied beastie on the wall makes you very sad.  I promise you, these beasties would have all died very long ago of natural causes, the hunters who killed them are all long dead, and if these beasties weren’t in the museum, they’d be in a landfill.  My grandpap’s family had to hunt to eat.  I am friends with a lot of hunters.  I eat meat, I use leather, and I don’t think either of those things are wrong, but trophy hunting ticks me off to no end, I promise you.  But this, somehow, is forgivable because the beasties are relics of another time.

The taxidermied beasts are all still there, but now they’re used as display pieces.  I kid you not.  And the displays get more and more strange the deeper into the museum/ tacky gift shop you go.  It starts like this:

Strange, right?  Ram’s head, surrounded by sports memorabilia and fake Native American “art.”  But a regular old Pennsylvania sportsman could hunt down and stuff a ram, so, you know, not too terribly weird.

But then there’s a rhino, who also apparently likes sports:

I should point out again that all of these beasties are antiques, slaughtered years ago before, well, Pennsylvanians stopped slaughtering endangered species on their foreign travel.  The current owners didn’t hurt any of these animals, but they just can’t bear to throw them away.  Which I actually understand.  It would literally add insult to injury to throw that majestic rhino’s head in the trash.  Poor fellah.  Maybe he likes to watch the tourists buy silly things.

What I don’t understand?  How can you have a family made just of roosters, and why you would charge your leopard with baby-sitting them.

That’s a recipe for disaster.  But I’m rooting for the Cat.  She looks like he could use a nice chicken dinner.

And what would make that little scene stranger, you might wonder?  Well, how about the fact that it is directly under this hefelump display stand!

See–her Kittyness is there in the lower center.  Seriously, how messed up is that?  Did David Lynch dress this set, or was it John Waters?  Wait, no, it had to be John Waters.  How do I know?  Because John Waters likes hats a lot.  And so do Water Buffalo:

And Bison:

In the wild, all the Bison go for the Shady Braidies, I promise you.   This shell of a bison taught me, as a child, how small dairy cattle are, in the scheme of things.  I thought Bossy was huge until I met this guy.  He’s huge.  Bossy was just zaftig.

But the pièce de résistance, without a doubt, is the Samurai Grizzly:

Dangerous to the nth degree, now that he’s mastered swordplay.  I think he’s about 11 feet tall.

So, yeah, Pennsylvania is weird.  This little detour sets the tone for our adventures every time.   After seeing this, having strangers obsessively try to kiss your hand and then be offended when you refuse to let them is a bit easier to handle.

That ticker is actually a bit low.  I have a bunch more stitching to measure, but it sure got late last night. 

My finger is almost entirely healed.  The nail is still a bit too short to be comfortable, so I’m keeping it covered, but I’m really happy to be heading out to the wilderness without that particular injury to deal with.

I finished machine sewing early Wednesday night.  Can I get an amen?  I said can I get an amen?!

Scott has a new linen del, which he’ll wear on the field.  It’s looking pretty snazzy.  It needs just a tiny bit more hand-sewing along the hem and then some closures.  I’ll probably make some luceted cord for the inner closure, bitching the whole time, and then use a good button and a luceted loop for the outer closure.  Mongols didn’t cut button holes.  That’s some respect for weavers, right there. 

I decided not to bother to make anything for myself after packing up my clothes for the trip.  I have an embarrassment of riches already.  Instead of stressing myself out with last-minute cutting, I’ll make myself a gorgeous present or two in time for my birthday.

Still lots of weaving to do on the inkle.  It’ll hold. 

We’ve gotten a lot of packing done, and Scott is home today picking up the trailer.  "How insane are these people, renting a trailer to carry camping gear?" you ask.  You’ll see how insane.  This year, we’ll live in the trees.   In the trees, I say!  We haven’t done it in years, but it’s time to raise the floor.

I know, you want pictures.  You’ll get pictures when I come back.   Anything else you really want to see?  Lemme know.  I can’t promise to try, but I’ll try to try.

My younger brother is moving into the Mean-Skuta Manse in our absence, so if you were planning to break in and steal the yarn or the fabric, well, you’ll have to get past a sarcastic red-headed hair farmer.  Who may be susceptible to bribes.  So, you will face essentially the same challenge you would if I were home, except I’m a brunette hair farmer, and I’m crap at soccer. 

If you do break into the manse to steal my stuff, just watch out for the Pint Lion.  In addition to stalking and eating toes, he has a new hobby.  He has fallen desperately in love with stick pins.  I really, really don’t want my kitten eating pins, so while you’re rifling through my studio, please keep him out of the room and away from the pin-cushion, and securely close up the studio as you escape with the loot.   I can deal with having less stuff, but I can’t deal with a wounded kitten.

<p>So, the last two important bog poems: </p>

<p><strong>The Grauballe Man</strong></p>

<p>As if he had been poured<br />in tar, he lies<br />on a pillow of turf<br />and seems to weep<br /><br />the black river of himself.<br />The grain of his wrists<br />is like bog oak,<br />the ball of his heel<br /><br />like a basalt egg.<br />His instep has shrunk<br />cold as a swan’s foot<br />or a wet swamp root.<br /><br />His hips are the ridge<br />and purse of a mussel,<br />his spine an eel arrested<br />under a glisten of mud.<br /><br />The head lifts,<br />the chin is a visor<br />raised above the vent<br />of his slashed throat<br /><br />that has tanned and toughened.<br />The cured wound<br />opens inwards to a dark<br />elderberry place.<br /><br />Who will say ‘corpse’<br />to his vivid cast?<br />Who will say ‘body’<br />to his opaque repose?<br /><br />And his rusted hair,<br />a mat unlikely<br />as a foetus’s.<br />I first saw his twisted face<br /><br />in a photograph,<br />a head and shoulder<br />out of the peat,<br />bruised like a forceps baby,<br /><br />but now he lies<br />perfected in my memory,<br />down to the red horn<br />of his nails,<br /><br />hung in the scales<br />with beauty and atrocity:<br />with the Dying Gaul<br />too strictly compassed<br /><br />on his shield,<br />with the actual weight<br />of each hooded victim,<br />slashed and dumped. </p>

<p><strong>Punishment</strong></p>

<p>I can feel the tug<br />of the halter at the nape<br />of her neck, the wind<br />on her naked front.</p>

<p>It blows her nipples<br />to amber beads, <br />it shakes the frail rigging<br />of her ribs.<br /><br />I can see her drowned<br />body in the bog, <br />the weighing stone, <br />the floating rods and boughs.<br /><br />Under which at first<br />she was a barked sapling<br />that is dug up<br />oak-bone, brain-firkin: <br /><br />her shaved head<br />like a stubble of black corn, <br />her blindfold a soiled bandage, <br />her noose a ring<br /><br />to store<br />the memories of love.<br />Little adultress, <br />before they punished you<br /><br />you were flaxen-haired, <br />undernourished, and your<br />tar-black face was beautiful.<br />My poor scapegoat, <br /><br />I almost love you<br />but would have cast, I know, <br />the stones of silence.<br />I am the artful voyeur</p>

<p>of your brain’s exposed<br />and darkened combs, <br />your muscles’ webbing<br />and all your numbered bones: <br /><br />I who have stood dumb<br />when your betraying sisters, <br />cauled in tar, <br />wept by the railings, <br /><br />who would connive<br />in civilized outrage<br />yet understand the exact<br />and tribal, intimate revenge. </p>

<p><strong></strong></p>

<p><strong></strong></p>

<p>These two poems are more violent than the first two we discussed.&nbsp; The Bog Queen’s disinterment can be seen as an act of violence against her, but, within the context of the poem, her death itself isn’t violent.&nbsp; Here we have a shift.</p>

<p><a href=”http://moesgaard.hum.au.dk/images/1/grauballe/graubman_head_jk.jpg”>Grauballe</a> <a href=”http://www.moesmus.dk/images/1/grauballe/graubmanjk153.jpg”>Man</a>, the actual body, is clearly more tortured in appearance than Tollund Man.&nbsp; Part of that is just a result of shifts within the peat that occurred after his was interred.&nbsp; The body is twisted in a way that Heaney compares to the <a href=”http://www.utexas.edu/courses/introtogreece/lect35/ab%20Dying%20Gaul.jpg”>Dying Gaul</a>.&nbsp; But Grauballe Man’s face is not the picture of restfulness that Tollund Man’s is.&nbsp; </p>

<p>In Punishment, the subject is a girl who was apparently shamed before she was killed and interred.&nbsp; Heaney admits that, had he been there, he would have aided and abetted those who harmed her.&nbsp; Many critics connect the subject here to the women who were tortured and terrorized for dating outside of their religion and community in Northern Ireland during the Troubles.&nbsp; </p>

<p>Again, I am most taken by Heaney’s language.&nbsp; His words are beautiful.&nbsp; His interest in Glob’s work is obvious.&nbsp; I just want to read this quartet of poems aloud again and again.&nbsp; &nbsp; </p>

<p>And I really need to dig up that paper and my slides . . .</p>