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Poetry and writing of all styles and all themes is welcome, especially if you are a published author. Anything written the mind can conceive of, and hearts can enjoy.

 

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Mourning Seamus Heaney - 08/31/2013
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The great poet died yesterday at age 74... much too young!  I mourn the loss of all the poems he had yet to write.  I selfishly mourn that I didn't go to the AWP in Boston last February, where he read. I have loved his poetry since I was introduced to it back in 1970, when I was in Ireland. Here is a well-known poem of his, which I have long loved: Digging by Seamus Heaney Between my finger and my thumb    The squat pen rests; snug as a gun. Under my window, a clean rasping sound    When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:    My father, digging. I look down Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds    Bends low, comes up twenty years away    Stooping in rhythm through potato drills    Where he was digging. The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft    Against the inside knee was levered firmly. He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep To scatter new potatoes that we picked, Loving their cool hardness in our hands. By God, the old man could handle a spade.    Just like his old man. My grandfather cut more turf in a day Than any other man on Toner’s bog. Once I carried him milk in a bottle Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up To drink it, then fell to right away Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods Over his shoulder, going down and down For the good turf. Digging. The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and sl...

Mourning Seamus Heaney



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