Monthly Archives: August 2013

RIP Seamus Heaney

The strange thing about the death of people whose  names you read on covers of books and under the titles of your youth’s defining texts (so you swore), is that the tug to the dirge of irreconcilable sadness comes from feeling of being so attached to them yet never having known them. And then the pain doubles. 

It is one my more dreary weekend mornings, when I wake facing the wall to the sound of a faint alert tone of one of the many seemingly unimportant notifications. ‘What exciting news is it, this time?’ I asked myself, honestly hoping for some mundane chat from one boy or another. And there it was, New York times broke the news to me. I find myself suddenly upright, searching among stacks of books and papers and even through folders in my computer, then flipping through the pages and remembering, remembering, remembering.

We all have that one  poem (or two or three, whatever) we’ll always go back to. Here’s mine.

Thank you Mr. Heaney. You will live forever in these pages, corners folded, marked, and annotated — your words rewritten in secret journals, repeated among friends.




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.   
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.   
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.’
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.

365 for 2013: (8) finally, the calm after the storm

Has it been two months already? I was just about to make coffee.

And I’m right there all over again.
Listening to guitar strings and a dying storm,
Waiting for morning winds to clear
the streets, these leaves, torn from home.