Seamus Heaney (1939-2013)

Collapse
X
 
  • Filter
  • Time
  • Show
Clear All
new posts
  • Padraig
    Full Member
    • Feb 2013
    • 4251

    #61
    From

    Sweeney Astray

    A version from the Irish

    81 Enna went back and told Moling that Sweeney had been killed by his swineherd Mongan. Immediately, Moling and his community came along to where Sweeney lay and Sweeney repented and made his confession to Moling. He received Christ's body and thanked God for having received it and after that was anointed by the clerics.

    83 Sweeney:

    There was a time when I preferred
    the turtle dove's soft jubilation
    as it flitted round a pool
    to the murmur of conversation.

    There was a time when I preferred
    the blackbird singing on the hill
    and the stag loud against the storm
    to the clinking tongue of this bell.

    There was a time when I preferred
    the mountain grouse crying at dawn
    to the voice and closeness
    of a beautiful woman.

    There was a time when I preferred
    wolf-packs yelping and howling
    to the sheepish voice of a cleric
    bleating out plainsong.

    You are welcome to pledge healths
    and carouse in your drinking dens;
    I will dip and steal water
    from a well with an open palm.

    You are welcome to that cloistered hush
    of your student's conversation;
    I will study the pure chant
    of hounds baying in Glen Bolcain.

    You are welcome to your salt meat
    and fresh meat in feasting houses;
    I will live content elsewhere
    on tufts of green watercress.

    The herd's sharp spear wounded me
    and passed clean through my body;
    Ah Christ, who disposed all things, why
    was I not killed at Moira?

    Of all the innocent lairs I made
    the length and breadth of Ireland
    I remember an open bed
    above the lough in Mourne.

    Of all the innocent lairs I made
    the length and breadth of Ireland
    I remember bedding down
    above the wood in Glen Bolcain.

    To You, Christ, I give thanks
    for your body in communion.
    Whatever evil I have done
    in this world, I repent.

    Seamus Heaney

    Do you hear the 'double note of relish and penitence'?
    I am reminded of the James Stewart character in Shenandoah saying grace.
    Last edited by Padraig; 25-08-15, 18:57.

    Comment

    • Padraig
      Full Member
      • Feb 2013
      • 4251

      #62
      Originally posted by Padraig View Post
      I have not yet visited Seamus Heaney's grave. I intend to do so this month.
      I went to Bellaghy today - 70 minutes away, through Sperrin country, if it's scenery you like. I walked to the church and graveyard, where a signpost to the grave was kindly provided. Though the anniversary is not until Sunday I expected a few people to be there, but there was just one young man from Magherafelt, and me. We swopped a few remarks and a few quotes, shook hands and went our ways. The grave was in a quiet corner, near to but separate from the main community, with more than one name conjuring up a Heaney poem. On returning to the village I chatted to the local pharmacist, with whom I shared a surprising number of acquaintances, we being strangers to each other, and he told me of plans for a Seamus Heaney Literary Centre, the construction of which in the main street of the village visibly well under way. It is due to open in time for the third anniversary next August.

      Yes, I was touched by the experience.

      Comment

      • johncorrigan
        Full Member
        • Nov 2010
        • 10432

        #63
        This must be where this one came from, Padraig - that was wonderful to read.


        ...and thank you so much for the story of your trip to Bellaghy today. Sounds like a most successful and moving pilgrimage.

        Comment

        • Globaltruth
          Host
          • Nov 2010
          • 4306

          #64
          Also thanks from me Padraig, I enjoyed reading that piece.

          Just yesterday I was picking blackberries:

          "Late August, given heavy rain and sun
          For a full week, the blackberries would ripen."

          We've not had enough sun or rain for them to do well but the act sent me to the poem.

          Often the taste of wine is compared to blackberries - as far as I know only Heaney had the originally to turn that comparison around.

          Comment

          • Lat-Literal
            Guest
            • Aug 2015
            • 6983

            #65
            And I enjoyed it very much too.

            Many thanks Padraig.

            Comment

            • Padraig
              Full Member
              • Feb 2013
              • 4251

              #66
              In memoriam

              ..."there are certain things that are in your memory for years....'The Blackbird of Glanmore' contains a memory of my young brother Christopher. The first time I came home from St. Columb's College, when he was just about two or three, he actually frolicked and rolled around the yard for pleasure. That stayed with me forever and came up more than fifty years later in the poem."

              Heaney in Stepping Stones Interviews with Dennis O'Driscoll, 2008.


              The Blackbird of Glanmore

              On the grass when I arrive,
              Filling the stillness with life,
              But ready to scare off
              At the very first wrong move,
              In the ivy when I leave.

              It's you, blackbird, I love.

              I park, pause, take heed.
              Breathe. Just breathe and sit
              And lines I once translated
              Come back: 'I want away
              To the house of death, to my father

              Under the low clay roof.'

              And I think of one gone to him,
              A little stillness dancer -
              Haunter-son, lost brother -
              Cavorting through the yard,
              So glad to see me home,

              My homesick first term over.

              And think of a neighbour's words
              Long after the accident:
              'Yon bird on the shed roof,
              Up on the ridge for weeks -
              I said nothing at the time
              But I never liked yon bird.'

              The automatic lock
              Clanks shut, the blackbird's panic
              Is shortlived, for a second
              I've a bird's eye view of myself,
              A shadow on raked gravel

              In front of my house of life.

              Hedge-hop, I am absolute
              For you, your ready talkback,
              Your each stand-offish comeback,
              Your picky, nervy goldbeak -
              On the grass when I arrive,

              In the ivy when I leave.

              Seamus Heaney (d 30 August 2013) District and Circle 2006

              Comment

              • Padraig
                Full Member
                • Feb 2013
                • 4251

                #67
                New publication, March next year: Aeneid Book VI in translation. Someone told me, but details in the press.

                Funny - I bought Book VI second hand during the summer for nostalgic/guilt reasons. We had a good Latin teacher (not at the same time) - much more appreciated by Seamus Heaney than by me. That's where he got his love for Virgil.

                A translation of part of Book VI appears in Seeing Things, 1991; and again in New Selected Poems, 2014.
                Last edited by Padraig; 11-09-15, 18:11.

                Comment

                • Padraig
                  Full Member
                  • Feb 2013
                  • 4251

                  #68
                  Originally posted by Padraig View Post
                  A translation of part of Book VI appears in Seeing Things, 1991
                  It's the first poem in the book - The Golden Bough (Aeneid, Book VI, lines 98 - 148)

                  What I have just noticed is that the book ends with:

                  The Crossing
                  (Inferno, Canto III, lines 82 - 129)

                  And there in a boat that came heading towards us
                  Was an old man, his hair snow-white with age,
                  Raging and bawling, 'Woe to you, wicked spirits!

                  O never hope to see the heavenly skies!
                  I come to bring you to the other shore,
                  To eternal darkness, to the fire and ice.

                  And you there, you, the living soul, separate
                  Yourself from these others who are dead.'
                  But when he saw that I did not stand aside

                  He said, 'By another way, by other harbours
                  You shall reach a different shore and pass over.
                  A lighter boat must be your carrier.'

                  And my guide said, 'Quiet your anger, Charon.
                  There where all can be done that has been willed
                  This has been willed, so there can be no question.'

                  etc etc etc

                  Seeing Things, 1991.

                  Comment

                  • Padraig
                    Full Member
                    • Feb 2013
                    • 4251

                    #69
                    .Some teachers here might remember the 'creative writing' tactic of getting pupils to respond freely to a piece of music. It was novel at the time of Seamus Heaney's early career as a teacher in a secondary school. I include it in response to the thread, 'Who said that'?

                    The Play Way

                    Sunlight pillars through glass, probes each desk
                    For milk-tops, drinking straws and old dry crusts.
                    The music strides to challenge it
                    Mixing memory and desire with chalk dust.

                    My lesson notes read: Teacher will play
                    Beethoven's Concerto Number Five
                    And class will express themselves freely
                    In writing. One said 'Can we jive?'

                    When I produced the record, but now
                    The big sound has silenced them. Higher
                    And firmer, each authoritative note
                    Pumps the classroom up tight as a tyre

                    Working its private spell behind eyes
                    That stare wide. They have forgotten me
                    For once. The pens are busy, the tongues mime
                    Their blundering embrace of the free

                    Word. A silence charged with sweetness
                    Breaks short on lost faces where I see
                    New looks. Then notes stretch taut as snares. They trip
                    To fall into themselves unknowingly.

                    Seamus Heaney Death of a Naturalist 1966

                    Comment

                    • greenilex
                      Full Member
                      • Nov 2010
                      • 1626

                      #70
                      "Fall into themselves" is what every mother-tongue teacher dreams their class might do...and what we all of us need or die of thirst.

                      Comment

                      • Padraig
                        Full Member
                        • Feb 2013
                        • 4251

                        #71
                        Originally posted by greenilex View Post
                        "Fall into themselves" is what every mother-tongue teacher dreams their class might do...and what we all of us need or die of thirst.
                        I confess was puzzled by the second half of your observation, greenilex.

                        I don't think there's much mystery about this news report:

                        A literary trail is being created in County Londonderry to showcase the area celebrated in Seamus Heaney's poetry.


                        I must say I'll be heading down that Trail when it opens. I have already explored part of it.

                        Comment

                        • Padraig
                          Full Member
                          • Feb 2013
                          • 4251

                          #72
                          Originally posted by greenilex View Post
                          "Fall into themselves" is what every mother-tongue teacher dreams their class might do...and what we all of us need or die of thirst.
                          I confess was puzzled by the second half of your observation, greenilex.

                          I don't think there's much mystery about this news report:

                          A literary trail is being created in County Londonderry to showcase the area celebrated in Seamus Heaney's poetry.


                          I must say I'll be heading down that Trail when it opens. I have already explored part of it.

                          Comment

                          • Globaltruth
                            Host
                            • Nov 2010
                            • 4306

                            #73
                            I was idly wondering if there was any connection between Joe Heaney and Seamus Heaney - of course, there isn't.
                            Joe is actually confirmed as being a namesake by Seamus Heaney on this episode of Desert Island Discs.... (Aug 1990), and you can maybe guess who was his second choice.
                            Sue Lawley's castaway is Oxford Professor of Poetry Seamus Heaney

                            Comment

                            • Padraig
                              Full Member
                              • Feb 2013
                              • 4251

                              #74
                              I presume, Global, that you refer to David Hammond, Heaney's good and longtime friend. They shared so much culture and friendship and were part of a wider circle of literary and musical friends. Both of these men worked with BBC Education in Northern Ireland and I remember David Hammond, long before I knew who he was, coming to one of my classes to give a little talk with poems and folk songs. Heaney, at the same time, was a regular broadcaster of material for secondary pupils, with an emphasis on language. He interested me a lot, never mind the pupils.
                              There are two poems by Heaney 'about' David Hammond: 'The Singer's House', from Field Work, 1979; and 'The door was open and the house was dark', from Human Chain, 2010. The latter was in memoriam DH, who died in 2008, and whose obituary in theGuardian that year was written by Heaney.

                              PS Joe Heaney is often called by his Irish name -Seosamh Ó hÉanai, which is not instantly recognisable. It has caught me out.
                              Last edited by Padraig; 26-01-16, 20:11. Reason: forgot to mention

                              Comment

                              • johncorrigan
                                Full Member
                                • Nov 2010
                                • 10432

                                #75
                                'Death's dark door stands open...' from an article in Saturday's Guardian from his forthcoming last translation of Aeneid.

                                Comment

                                Working...
                                X