12-1-2001
Seamus Heaney
(1939 - )
Biography
Heaney was
born on April 13, 1939, the eldest of nine children, to Margaret and Patrick
Heaney, at the family farm, Mossbawn, about 30 miles northwest of Belfast in
County Derry. He attended the local school at Anahorish until 1957, when he
enrolled at Queen's College, Belfast and took a first in English there in 1961.
The next school year he took a teacher's certificate in English at St. Joseph's
College in Belfast. In 1963 he took a position as a lecturer in English at the
same school.
While at
St. Joseph's he began to write, publishing work in the university magazines
under the pseudonym Incertus. During that time, along with Derek Mahon, Michael
Longley, and others, he joined a poetry workshop under the guidance of Philip
Hobsbaum. In 1965, in connection with the Belfast Festival, he published Eleven
Poems. In August of 1965 he married Marie Devlin. The following year he became a
lecturer in modern English literature at Queen's College, Belfast, his first son
Michael was born, and Faber and Faber published Death of a Naturalist. This
volume earned him the E.C. Gregory Award, the Cholmondeley Award in 1967, the
Somerset Maugham Award in 1968, and the Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize, also in
1968. Christopher, his second son, was born in 1968.
His second
volume, Door into the Dark, was published in 1969 and became the Poetry Book
Society Choice for the year. In 1970-71 he was a guest lecturer at the
University of California, Berkeley. He returned to Northern Ireland in 1971, and
in 1972 he resigned his lecturship at Queens College, moved his family to
Glanmore, in County Wicklow, and published Wintering Out. In 1973 his daughter,
Catherine Ann, was born. During this year he also received the Denis Devlin
Award and the Writer in Residence Award from the American Irish Foundation. In
1975 North was published, winning the E.M. Forster Award and the Duff Cooper
Memorial Prize. During these years at Glanmore, Heaney also gave many readings
in the United States and England and edited two poetry anthologies.
In 1975
Heaney began teaching at Carysfort College in Dublin. In 1976 the family moved
to Sandymount, in Dublin, and Heaney became Department Head at Carysfort. In
1979 he published Field Work, and in 1980, Selected Poems and Preoccupations:
Selected Prose. In 1981 he gave up his post at Carysfort to become a visiting
professor at Harvard. In 1982 he won the Bennett Award, and Queen's University
in Belfast conferred on him an honorary Doctor of Letters degree. He cofounded
Field Day Publishing with Brian Friel and others in 1983. Station Island, his
first collection in five years, was published in 1984. During that year he was
elected the Boylston Professor of Rhetoric and Oratory at Harvard, and Open
University awarded him an honorary degree. Also in 1984 his mother, Margaret
Kathleen, died. The Haw Lantern, published in 1987, contains a brilliant sonnet
sequence memorializing her. Heaney's father, Patrick, died after this, and
Heaney's latest collection, Seeing Things, published in 1991, contains many
poems for his father.
Robert
Lowell has deemed Heaney "the most important Irish poet since Yeats."
Critics have been largely positive about his verse, and he is undoubtedly the
most popular poet writing in English today. His books sell by the tens of
thousands, and hundreds of "Heaneyboppers" attend his readings. His
earliest influences, Robert Frost and Ted Hughes, can be seen throughout his
work, but most especially in his first two volumes, where he recollects images
of his childhood at Mossbawn. Other poets, especially Gerard Manley Hopkins,
William Wordsworth, Thomas Hardy, and even Dante have played important roles in
his development.
The first
poem in this archive, "Personal Helicon," introduces an abiding
interest, a concern for that which lies deep within the earth. It is dedicated
to Michael Longley, another member of Hobsbaum's group. Mount Helicon is a
mountain in Greece, that was, in classical mythology, sacred to Apollo and the
Muses. From it flowed two fountains of poetic inspiration. Heaney is here
presenting his own source of inspiration, the "dark drop" into
personal and cultural memory, made present by the depths of the wells of his
childhood. Now, as a man, he is too mature to scramble about on hands and knees,
looking into the deep places of the earth, but he has his poetry. This serves as
his glimpse into places where "there is no reflection," but only the
sound of a rhyme, like a bucket, setting "the darkness echoing." This
is the final poem in his first volume, and, together with his first poem in that
volume, "Digging," acts as a bookend to the collection, utilizing this
successful metaphor.
"Bogland,"
the final poem in his second volume, presents once again his fascination with
things buried. He acknowledges an attachment to the soil that is the source and
subject of his poetry. The catalog of objects, buried in bogs for years,
sometimes centuries, and dug up in remarkable condition, encompasses the
vegetable world ("waterlogged trunks / of great firs"), the animal
world ("the skeleton / of the Great Irish Elk"), and the human world
("Butter sunk under / More than a hundred years"). Perhaps with
hindsight we see a progression toward the bog's most important preservation, a
human being.
Hard on
the publication of P.V. Glob's The Bog People, detailing the discovery of a
series of bodies over 2000 years old in the bogs of Denmark, Heaney's metaphor,
begun in "Bogland," reaches its ultimate fruition. In Glob's book,
Heaney found the consummation of his descent into the earth. His series of
"Bog Poems" (including "The Tollund Man") address, through a
study of these victims of tribal sacrifice and punishment, the political and
social situation in his native Northern Ireland. Heaney's fascination with the
past allows him to comment on the present in an oblique yet forceful way.
Perhaps the most striking of these poems is "Punishment," where he
sees in the corpse of a ritually sacrificed woman an echo of the Catholic women
in Northern Ireland who are tarred and chained to their front porches for dating
British soldiers. He acknowledges his guilt for implicit participation in such
terrible deeds, because he "would have cast, I know / the stones of silence."
He recognizes his own conflicting feelings, this man
who would connive
in civilized outrage
yet understand the exact
and
tribal, intimate revenge.
Some
critics have placed Heaney in a no-win situation; he is condemned either for
confronting too strongly the situation in his homeland, or taken to task for
remaining aloof from it. Nevertheless, some of his most convincing elegies deal
with friends and family he has lost to the Troubles. "Casualty," a
poem about a Catholic friend murdered by a bomb set by the Provisional Irish
Republican Army in a Protestant pub, gives us another look at the tribal warfare
in Northern Ireland. His questioning of his friend's responsibility for his own
death realizes the ambiguous nature, the muddling of right and wrong, that grips
Northern Ireland today. And yet, what is important is not placing blame, but the
recognition of what remains to those who live, memories and sadness.
It is easy
to get the impression that Heaney is a provincial poet, concerned only with the
happenings of his island and his memory. That conclusion, however, would be
misleading. He is not merely a one-note minstrel; his birthplace does not
completely occupy his mind. "Song" demonstrates his exploration of the
poetic process. Like "Digging" and "Personal Helicon," this
short lyric attends to his own imagination. His descriptive powers are akin to
Wordsworth's, and his attention to the world around him and the details of
language make this poem a small success.
"Harvest
Bow," a touching look at his father's creative impulse, also addresses
Heaney's own art. The poem rests on the recognition that there are more
important creations than the ordering of words. Rather than being merely a
recollection of childhood, this poem takes on universal weight in the
intertwining of the artistic forces in father and son. Heaney presents the
mature relationship of a child with his or her parents, the unspoken joy of a
shared experience. His recognition of his father's different talents leads to a
consideration of his own work, like his father's a "frail device." Be
it a harvest bow or a formal elegy, "The end of art is peace." Further
explorations of Heaney's thoughts on his own poetry can be found in his two
collections of essays, the previously mentioned Preoccupations and The
Government of the Tongue. He is an insightful critic of both the Romantic
tradition and the poetry of the twentieth century.
Perhaps
his most moving works are the series of sonnets called "Clearances,"
written as a memorial to his mother. The two poems we have here, the third and
fifth of the sequence, show him taking firm hold of the sonnet form and bending
it to his own interpretation of the elegaic tradition. These poems possess a
soft power that bathes all in the golden haze of memory while presenting stark
images of the spaces that death leaves between us. In "When all the others
were away at Mass" Heaney moves from the distant past of the first two
quatrains, through a telling break in lines, the into a place nearer the present
in the final quatrain. But this present reality is too much to bear, and he
retreats again to the past in the final couplet. In this way memory serves as a
shield to protect him from his mother's death. "The cool that came off
sheets just off the line" takes place entirely in the past, as he recalls
the intricate dance he and his mother performed in folding bed linens. His
comment on their relationship, "Coming close while again holding back,"
speaks to a lifetime of memories, and the space that her absence leaves in his
life.
His final
poems here, from "Lightenings," take up again thoughts of death, the
afterlife, and other planes of existence. The structure of these poems, with
their three-line stanzas, recalls Dante's Divine Comedy, where the poet as
pilgrim is guided through the afterlife. Heaney has remarked that, since the
death of his parents, he feels as if "the roof has blown off" his life.
We are all inevitably relased from both the weight and the shield of our
ancestors. This lightening, when we are finally exposed to the elements, to the
cosmos, is both freeing and frightening. The first poem acknowledges the
transience of life, framing death in the religious terms of the particular and
universal judgements that come at the end of an individual life and the end of
the world. Recognition of the fact that "there is no next-time-round"
carries with it a mixture of fear and freedom.
Heaney
discusses that mixture again in the Hardy lyrics, and explores the questions
that the nearness of death brings. Hardy pretends to be dead in "vi,"
and, being dead, "He experimented with infinity." He claims that the
recognition of death is a necessary act for a poet, for it alone opens the poet
up to what the universe has to say. In "vii" Heaney admits to the
frailty of memory, a fragility that makes what is remembered all the more dear.
Hardy's communion with the frightened sheep holds the anticipated sorrow that
would later fill his poetry at bay for a moment. Again, the nearness of death,
or, for Hardy, the pretending to be dead, is an essential component, if not the
ultimate font, of poetry. The final poem here ends on a life-affirming note, for
Heaney recognizes the beauty of earthly existence, placing that beauty in a
religious context that not only enhances it, but holds out hope for more wonders
to come after death.
Heaney's
work is filled with images of death and dying, and yet it is also firmly rooted
in the life of this world. His tender elegies about friends and family members
who have died serve many purposes: they mourn great losses, celebrate those who
have gone before us, and recall the solace that remains to us, our memories.
When asked recently about his abiding interest in memorializing the people of
his life, he replied, "The elegaic Heaney? There's nothing else."
Joe Pellegrino
Select Bibliography
* A Boy Driving His Father to
Confession / Farnham, Surrey: The Sceptre Press, c1970.
* A Lough Neagh Sequence /
Didsbury, Manchester [Lancashire]: Phoenix Pamphlet Poets Press, 1969.
* A Personal Selection: August
20-October 24, 1982 / Belfast: Ulster Museum, 1982.
* After Summer / illustrations by
Timothy Engelland. Old Deerfield, Mass.: Deerfield Press, c1978.
* Among Schoolchildren: A Lecture
Dedicated to the Memory of John Malone / [Belfast]: John Malone Memorial
Committee, c1983.
* An Open Letter / Derry: Field
Day Theatre Company, 1983.
* Arvon Foundation Poetry
Competition: 1980 Anthology / edited and introduced by Ted Hughes and Seamus
Heaney. Todmorden (Lancashire): Kilnhurst Pub. Co., [1982].
* Bog Poems / illustrated by
Barrie Cooke. London: Rainbow Press, 1975.
* Death of a Naturalist / London:
Faber and Faber, [c1966].
* Door Into the Dark / London,
Faber and Faber, 1969
* Eleven Poems / Belfast: Queen's
University of Belfast, 1965.
* Field Work / London; Boston:
Faber and Faber, 1979.
* Gravities: A Collection of
Poems and Drawings / Seamus Heaney, Noel Connor. Newcastle-upon-Tyne: Charlotte
Press Publications, 1979.
* Hailstones / Dublin, Ireland:
Gallery Press, 1984.
* Hedge School: Sonnets from
Glanmore / with colour woodcuts by Claire Van Vliet. Salem, Ore. (Postbox 12367,
Salem, Ore. 97301): C. Seluzicki, 1979.
* In Their Element: A Selection
of Poems / by Seamus Heaney & Derek Mahon. [Belfast: Arts Council of
Northern Ireland, 1977].
* Iron Spike / Concord, N.H.:
William B. Ewert, 1992.
* Land / [London]:
Poem-of-the-Month Club, 1971.
* Mint / Concord, N.H.: William
B. Ewert, 1991.
* New Selected Poems, 1966-1987 /
London: Faber and Faber, 1990.
* Night Drive / Crediton, Devon:
Richard Gilbertson, [1970].
* North / Seamus Heaney. London:
Faber and Faber, 1975.
* Place and Displacement: Recent
Poetry of Northern Ireland / Seamus Heaney
* Poems and a Memoir / Seamus
Heaney; selected and illustrated by Henry Pearson with an introduction by Thomas
Flanagan and a preface by Seamus Heaney. New York: Limited Editions Club, c1982
([Hadley, Mass.]: Wild Carrot Letterpress).
* Poems, 1965-1975 / New York:
Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, c1980.
* Preoccupations: Selected Prose,
1968-1978 / New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, c1980.
* Remembering Malibu / Claremont,
Calif.: Scripps College Press, c1983.
* Responses / London: National
Book League; Poetry Society, 1971
* Robert Lowell: A Memorial
Address and an Elegy / London ; Boston: Privately printed by Faber and Faber,
c1978.
* Seamus Heaney and Tom Paulin /
introductions by Craig Raine. London: Faber and Faber, c1983. (Audio tape)
* Seamus Heaney at Harvard :
Heaney Reads His Own Poems / [Cambridge, MA]: Poetry Room, Harvard College
Library, p1990. (Audio tape)
* Seeing Things / New York:
Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1991.
* Selected Poems, 1965-1975 /
London; Boston: Faber and Faber, 1980.
* Servant Boy / Detroit: The Red
Hanrahan Press, 1971.
* Station Island / London;
Boston: Faber and Faber, 1984.
* Stations / [Belfast]: Ulsterman
* Sweeney Astray: A Version from
the Irish / Derry: Field Day Theatre Company, 1983.
* Sweeney Praises the Trees /
illustrated by Henry Pearson. New York: [s.n.], 1981
* Sweeney's Flight: Based on the
Revised Text of "Sweeney Astray": with the Complete Revised Text of
"Sweeney Astray" / with photographs by Rachel Giese. London: Faber and
Faber, 1992.
* The Cure at Troy: A Version of
Sophocles' Philoctetes / London: Faber and Faber in association with Field Day,
1990.
* The Essential Wordsworth /
selected and with an introduction by Seamus Heaney. 1st ed. New York: Ecco Press,
1988.
* The Fire i' the Flint:
Reflections on the Poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins. / London: Oxford University
Press, 1975.
* The Government of the Tongue:
the 1986 T.S. Eliot Memorial Lectures and Other Critical Writings / London:
Faber and Faber, 1988.
* The Gravel Walks / Hickory,
N.C.: Lenoir Rhyne College,1992. ([s.l.]: Shadowy Waters Press).
* The Haw Lantern / New York:
Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1987.
* The Makings of a Music:
Reflections on the Poetry of Wordsworth and Yeats / delivered on 9 February,
1978 [Liverpool, Eng.]: University of Liverpool, 1978.
* The Place of Writing / with an
introduction by Ronald Schuchard. Atlanta, Ga.: Scholars Press, [c1989].
* The Rattle Bag / edited by
Seamus Heaney and Ted Hughes. London; Boston: Faber and Faber, 1982 (1984
printing).
* The Redress of Poetry: An
Inaugural Lecture Delivered Before the University of Oxford on 24 October, 1989
/ Oxford: Clarendon Press; New York: Oxford University Press, 1990.
* The Sounds of Rain / [Atlanta]:
Emory University, c1988 ([s.l.]: Shadowy Waters Press).
* The Tree Clock / Belfast: Linen
Hall Library, 1990.
* Ugolino / with 2 lithographs by
Louis Le Brocquy. Dublin: A. Carpenter, 1979.
* Verses for a Fordham
Commencement / New York (2651/2 West 94 St., New York, 10025): Nadja, c1984.
* Wintering Out / London: Faber
and Faber, 1972.
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Personal Helicon for Michael Longley
As a child, they could not keep
me from wells And old pumps with buckets and
windlasses.
I loved the dark drop, the
trapped sky, the smells Of waterweed, fungus and dank
moss. One, in a brickyard, with a
rotted board top. I savoured the rich crash when a
bucket Plummeted down at the end of a
rope. So deep you saw no reflection in
it. A shallow one under a dry stone
ditch Fructified like any aquarium. When you dragged out long roots
from the soft mulch A white face hovered over the
bottom. Others had echoes, gave back your
own call With a clean new music in it. And
one Was scaresome, for there, out of
ferns and tall Foxgloves, a rat slapped across
my reflection. Now, to pry into roots, to finger
slime, To stare, big-eyed Narcissus,
into some spring Is beneath all adult dignity. I
rhyme To see myself, to set the
darkness echoing.
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Hélicon Pessoal
Em criança, que ninguém me tirasse os poços
De um, numa fábrica, sob tábuas podres,
Menos fundo, à sombra de um talude,
Outros tinham ecos, devolviam-nos a voz
Agora,
perscrutar raízes, pôr a mão na lama,
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Bogland
To T.P.Flanagan
We have no prairies To slice a big sun at evening - Everywhere the eye concedes to Encroaching horizon,
Is wooed into the cyclops' eye Of a tarn. Our unfenced country Is bog that keeps crusting Between the sights of the sun.
They've taken the skeleton Of the Great Irish Elk Out of the peat, set it up An astounding crate full of air.
Butter sunk under More than a hundred years Was recovered salty and white. The ground itself is kind, black butter
Melting and opening underfoot, Missing its last definition By millions of years. They'll never dig coal here,
Only the waterlogged trunks Of great firs, soft as pulp. Our pioneers keep striking Inwards and downwards,
Every layer they strip Seems camped on before. The bogholes might be Atlantic
seepage. The wet centre is bottomless.
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Turfeira Para T.P.Flanagan
Não temos pradarias Que golpeiem um sol grande ao entardecer – Por todo o lado a vista cede a Horizontes constritivos,
À sedução do olhar ciclópico De uma lagoa. O nosso território sem limites É a turfeira, que vai encrostando Entre vislumbres de sol.
Encontraram o esqueleto Do Grande Alce Irlandês Na turfa, e ergueram-no, Espantoso cabaz cheio de ar.
Manteiga enterrada Por mais de cem anos Foi achada branca e salgada. A própria terra é manteiga negra e generosa
Derretendo e abrindo sob os pés, Falhando o seu estádio último Por milhões de anos de diferença. Carvão, nunca o hão-de escavar aqui,
Apenas os troncos encharcados De grandes abetos, macios, pastosos. Os nossos pioneiros perseveram Para dentro e para baixo,
Cada estrato que desnuda, Tem marcas de incursões anteriores. Serão os atoleiros escoadouros do Atlântico? Não tem fundo, o centro húmido. (**) |
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The Tollund Man
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O Homem de Tollund
I Um dia hei-de ir a Aarhus ver-lhe a cabeça cor de terra muito escura, a vagem leve de suas pálpebras, o seu gorro pontudo de pele.
No país plano por ali onde o tiraram cá para fora, a sua última papa de sementes de inverno inteiriçada no estômago.
Nu excepto pelo gorro, nó corredio e cinto. Ficarei muito tempo, Noivo da deusa,
ela apertou-lhe os torques e abriu o seu pântano, esses escuros sucos trabalhando- -o para o corpo poupado de um santo,
achado dos trabalhos em alvéolos de cortadores de turfa. Agora a sua face escurecida repousa em Aarhus.
II Eu podia arriscar a blasfémia, consagrar o pântano-caldeira nosso chão sagrado e rezar-lhe para que faça germinar
a dispersa, emboscada carne dos trabalhadores, corpos de meias enfiadas estirados nos quinteiros.
a pele reveladora e dentes manchando os dormentes de quatro irmão jovens arrastados milhas ao longo da linha.
III Algo da sua triste liberdade quando ele ia de carreta devia vir até mim, que guio dizendo os nomes
Tollund, Grabaulle, Nebelgard, olhando os dedos em riste da gente do campo, sem conhecer-lhe a língua.
Lá fora na Jutlândia nas velhas paróquias que matam, vou sentir-me perdido, infeliz e em casa. (*)
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CasualtyI He would drink by himself And raise a weathered thumb Towards the high shelf, Calling another rum And blackcurrant, without Having to raise his voice, Or order a quick stout By a lifting of the eyes And a discreet dumb-show Of pulling off the top; At closing time would go In waders and peaked cap Into the showery dark, A dole-kept breadwinner But a natural for work. I loved his whole manner, Sure-footed but too sly, His deadpan sidling tact, His fisherman's quick eye And turned observant back.
Incomprehensible To him, my other life. Sometimes on the high stool, Too busy with his knife At a tobacco plug And not meeting my eye, In the pause after a slug He mentioned poetry. We would be on our own And, always politic And shy of condescension, I would manage by some trick To switch the talk to eels Or lore of the horse and cart Or the Provisionals.
But my tentative art His turned back watches too: He was blown to bits Out drinking in a curfew Others obeyed, three nights After they shot dead The thirteen men in Derry. PARAS THIRTEEN, the walls said, BOGSIDE NIL. That Wednesday Everyone held His breath and trembled.
II
It was a day of cold Raw silence, wind-blown Surplice and soutane: Rained-on, flower-laden Coffin after coffin Seemed to float from the door Of the packed cathedral Like blossoms on slow water. The common funeral Unrolled its swaddling band, Lapping, tightening Till we were braced and bound Like brothers in a ring.
But he would not be held At home by his own crowd Whatever threats were phoned, Whatever black flags waved. I see him as he turned In that bombed offending place, Remorse fused with terror In his still knowable face, His cornered outfaced stare Blinding in the flash.
He had gone miles away For he drank like a fish Nightly, naturally Swimming towards the lure Of warm lit-up places, The blurred mesh and murmur Drifting among glasses In the gregarious smoke. How culpable was he That last night when he broke Our tribe's complicity? 'Now, you're supposed to be An educated man,' I hear him say. 'Puzzle me The right answer to that one.'
III
I missed his funeral, Those quiet walkers And sideways talkers Shoaling out of his lane To the respectable Purring of the hearse... They move in equal pace With the habitual Slow consolation Of a dawdling engine, The line lifted, hand Over fist, cold sunshine On the water, the land Banked under fog: that morning I was taken in his boat, The screw purling, turning Indolent fathoms white, I tasted freedom with him. To get out early, haul Steadily off the bottom, Dispraise the catch, and smile As you find a rhythm Working you, slow mile by mile, Into your proper haunt Somewhere, well out, beyond...
Dawn-sniffing revenant, Plodder through midnight rain, Question me again.
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Uma Baixa
. I Bebia sempre sozinho, E p’ra pedir mais um rum Com groselha, nem falava, Mais não tinha que apontar Um calejado polegar P’rá prateleira de cima; P’ra uma garrafa preta, Era um leve erguer dos olhos E uma mímica discreta De quem arrancava a cápsula; Ao fechar, lá ia ele, Botas de pesca e boné, P’rá escuridão aguacenta, Vivendo do desemprego, Mas devotado ao trabalho. Eu adorava o seu trato, Confiante mas manhoso, O seu impassível tacto, Como quem não quer a coisa, Olho vivo de pescador, Atento mesmo de costas.
Incompreensível, p’ra ele,
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