First appeared on Blogcritics.
I thanked the white-haired gentleman but remained silent after that, not wanting to talk as someone else was at the podium reading. I guess I also felt a little uncomfortable with any kind of praise for my writing; I don’t think I have ever been able to get used to it.
Later on my friend Brendan walked over to me and asked, “What did he have to say to you?”
“Who?” Then I remembered the older gent. “Oh, that fellow in the booth?”
Brendan squeezed my arm. “That fellow is Seamus Heaney.”
I looked back at the booth where the poet had been sitting, but he was gone. Such was my brief encounter with the famous poet, but it struck me not how generous and kind he had been to me, but rather how real his words were, how human.
I think that when we meet celebrities of any kind, we expect something otherworldly; however, my experiences have been just the opposite. Over the years I have met actors like Al Pacino, Bob Fosse, Margaret Hamilton, and Kathy Bates, and they all came across as real people who were friendly and unassuming. I also have met famous writers, among them Galway Kinnell, Lorian Hemingway, Robert Olen Butler, and Mr. Heaney, and I have had a similar experience. They aren’t towering Olympians but regular folks who happen to be blessed with extraordinary talent.
One of the things that made Heaney’s work so lasting and memorable was that it connected humanity to something intangible, yet however spiritual, it reminded us of earthly realities in the process. Consider the words of the man regarding his role as poet in a 1991 interview with The Economist. “The poet is on the side of undeceiving the world,” he said. “It means being vigilant in the public realm. But you can go further still and say that poetry tries to help you to be a truer, purer, wholer being.”
While being a political voice and identifying himself as a Catholic by leaving his native Northern Ireland to live in Dublin, he was also not totally anti-England. Especially admiring of English writers, Heaney understood their enormous contribution to literature. But he was also avowedly Irish as evident in these words he wrote: “Be advised, my passport’s green/No glass of ours was ever raised/To toast the Queen.”
I remember first reading Heaney’s work in my English classes at Queens College here in New York City. Knowing that his father was a farmer and that he had grown up in the culture of tilling the soil, it seemed only natural that his poems were crafted of and for the earth, owing much to that Irish land he loved, but instead of a plow he used his pen as he describes in this poem “Digging” :
The cold smell of potato mould,
the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests. I’ll dig with it.
When I think of all the poems I have read over the years, all the prose too, the undeniable power of Heaney’s work rises above them all to shine brightly. Sometimes being awarded a Nobel Prize mutes the writer’s output or quality, but Heaney’s work only became more robust after receiving the award.
Sadly, Mr. Heaney’s life was cut short when he passed away in the hospital after taking a fall. Being that he was 74, we could have expected more from him in the years to come, but now the great poet is silenced. Actor Liam Neeson said that Ireland has lost part of its soul with Heaney’s death, and we can understand that impact on the land that he loved and its people for whom he rightly became an icon.
But consider that his voice is forever, his words for all time. That is the true power of poetry, one that Heaney recognized and respected. He leaves us with a body of work that does make us more whole, as he once noted was his goal, and that makes us and the world better, which is quite a legacy to leave behind.
Rest in peace, Seamus Heaney.
Photo credits: Getty Images
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