Death of a poet

So sad to hear the news today of the death of that great man, Seamus Heaney.

Today’s post from The Morning Porch:

A jay’s call isn’t harsh, a nuthatch’s isn’t querulous: so hard to hear the music of what happens. Every day some poet dies from the strain.

Postscript – 1st September – Alistair Peebles, whom I had the pleasure of meeting in Stromness in 2008, has just posted a very nice story about Seamus Heaney:

In 1994, on his second visit to the St Magnus Festival, I was given the job of looking after Seamus Heaney. Driving him around and making sure he was at places on time. All quite successful. He didn’t like to be early, which probably helped. But he didn’t mind waiting and signing books after the readings, and he was easy about meeting people …

– read more on his blog.

And finally, courtesy of the Poetry Can newsletter:

Poem of the Month

Postscript

And some time make the time to drive out west
Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,
In September or October, when the wind
And the light are working off each other
So that the ocean on one side is wild
With foam and glitter, and inland among stones
The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit
By the earthed lightening of a flock of swans,
Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,
Their fully-grown headstrong-looking heads
Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.
Useless to think you’ll park or capture it
More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,
A hurry through which known and strange things pass
As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
And catch the heart off guard and blow it open

Seamus Heaney 

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