In a land known for its poets, Seamus Heaney still stands out. The
committee that awarded him the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1995 cited his “works
of lyrical beauty and ethical depth, which exalt everyday miracles and the
living past.”
Well, yes.
Born in Ulster, Heaney’s literary career took him many places, but
he chose to live in the Republic and he wrote frequently about Ireland and
Irish history. His “Requiem
for the Croppies” is utter heartbreak.
Today, however, we’ll have something less terrible. Just the joy
of spring in Ireland.
“May”
When I looked down from the bridge
Trout were flipping the sky
Into smithereens, the stones
Of the wall warmed me.
Wading green stems, lugs of leaf
That untangle and bruise
(Their tiny gushers of juice)
My toecaps sparkle now
Over the soft fontanel
Of Ireland. I should wear
Hide shoes, the hair next my skin,
For walking this ground:
Wasn’t there a spa-well,
Its coping grassy, pendent?
And then the spring issuing
Right across the tarmac.
I’m out to find that village,
Its low sills fragrant
With ladysmock and celandine,
Marshlights in the summer dark.
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