This is what Sweeney does best: he uses physical objects to conjure
something intangible and, conversely, infuses empty space with physical
presence.
In his later poem, “A Dream of Honey”, first published in the TLS of July 13, 2001, Sweeney combines this skill with what Ian Sansom described in 1992 as a “spare story-telling technique that is all his own”, moving beyond static images into a quasi-folktale tinged with a wry narrative voice. Here, we drift between two states: romanticizing the dream-like future and looking back on ourselves in the peculiar act of remembering – mourning, even – the present. Long-awaited jars of honey are “snapped up” by unseen customers, and the only individual mentioned – the “peasant woman” – disappears, leaving behind that familiar sense of vacancy. A simple first impression is, on closer inspection, as structurally intricate as a natural artefact: the architecture of the Zeppelin Hangars market stands like giant cells of honeycomb. Emails speed across the country, helicopters fly low over houses and the speaker hovers from the detached perspective of the dreamer – persistent reminders of the absent bees. And then there’s the honey itself – “fabled”, “hoarded”, rumoured, resurrected – which takes on a mythic, spiritual quality at odds with the scientifically advanced, environmentally-eroded setting. “A Dream of Honey” is unassuming in its three neat stanzas, framing itself inside its own invisible subject. (TLS)
A Dream of Honey
I dreamed that bees were extinct,
had been for decades, and honey
was a fabled memory, except for jars
hoarded by ancient, wealthy gourmets.
Honey was still on the shelves, of course –
that’s what they’d named the sweet concoction
chemists had arrived at, and it sold well,
not just to those who knew no better,
and the day was coming fast when no one
alive would be able to taste the difference.
Then one Friday morning in Riga
a peasant woman arrived by horse and cart
at the old Zeppelin Hangars market
and set up her stall with jars of honey
flavoured by the various flowers. Around her
sellers of the new honey gawped, then sniffed
as she screwed the lids off, then glared
as her jars were snapped up in minutes,
and she climbed on her cart again
and let the horse take her away.
In the dream, e-mails sped everywhere
about this resurrection of honey,
and supermarket-suppliers scoured Latvia,
knocking on every door, sending helicopters
low over houses, looking for beehives,
but after a month they gave it up,
and the woman never appeared again
though rumours of her honey-selling
came over the border from Russia
and continued beyond the dream.
MATTHEW SWEENEY (2001)
In his later poem, “A Dream of Honey”, first published in the TLS of July 13, 2001, Sweeney combines this skill with what Ian Sansom described in 1992 as a “spare story-telling technique that is all his own”, moving beyond static images into a quasi-folktale tinged with a wry narrative voice. Here, we drift between two states: romanticizing the dream-like future and looking back on ourselves in the peculiar act of remembering – mourning, even – the present. Long-awaited jars of honey are “snapped up” by unseen customers, and the only individual mentioned – the “peasant woman” – disappears, leaving behind that familiar sense of vacancy. A simple first impression is, on closer inspection, as structurally intricate as a natural artefact: the architecture of the Zeppelin Hangars market stands like giant cells of honeycomb. Emails speed across the country, helicopters fly low over houses and the speaker hovers from the detached perspective of the dreamer – persistent reminders of the absent bees. And then there’s the honey itself – “fabled”, “hoarded”, rumoured, resurrected – which takes on a mythic, spiritual quality at odds with the scientifically advanced, environmentally-eroded setting. “A Dream of Honey” is unassuming in its three neat stanzas, framing itself inside its own invisible subject. (TLS)
A Dream of Honey
I dreamed that bees were extinct,
had been for decades, and honey
was a fabled memory, except for jars
hoarded by ancient, wealthy gourmets.
Honey was still on the shelves, of course –
that’s what they’d named the sweet concoction
chemists had arrived at, and it sold well,
not just to those who knew no better,
and the day was coming fast when no one
alive would be able to taste the difference.
Then one Friday morning in Riga
a peasant woman arrived by horse and cart
at the old Zeppelin Hangars market
and set up her stall with jars of honey
flavoured by the various flowers. Around her
sellers of the new honey gawped, then sniffed
as she screwed the lids off, then glared
as her jars were snapped up in minutes,
and she climbed on her cart again
and let the horse take her away.
In the dream, e-mails sped everywhere
about this resurrection of honey,
and supermarket-suppliers scoured Latvia,
knocking on every door, sending helicopters
low over houses, looking for beehives,
but after a month they gave it up,
and the woman never appeared again
though rumours of her honey-selling
came over the border from Russia
and continued beyond the dream.
MATTHEW SWEENEY (2001)
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