"... a gentle man , a very fine poet ..." - by Allan Massie

Seamus Heaney: Greatest Irish Poet since Yeats
by
Allan Massie
(The Telegraph/Culture/August 30th, 2013)
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Setting out on a tour of literary landmarks with Seamus Heaney and Karl Miller, Andrew O’Hagan remembered Miller mischievously saying, “let’s see if we can get Seamus to say something nasty about anyone”. They didn’t succeed, though in one hotel where the landlord or landlady – I forget which – made some distasteful remarks, Heaney quietly picked up his whisky, and perhaps the bottle too, and took it up to his bed. This little story, told affectionately, says a lot about him. Seamus Heaney was a gentle man, as well as a very fine poet, but one with a clear sense of what was right and wrong, fitting or unsuitable.

By common consent he was the greatest Irish poet since Yeats, and a nicer man than Yeats. The appeal of his poetry was both wide and deep. It was read and admired by fellow-poets, to whom he was by all accounts unfailingly helpful and encouraging, and academics, but also by schoolchildren and people who might have been surprised to find themselves liking poems. His work was both popular and subtle. His poems made sense at a first reading, and usually more and deeper sense at a second or third one. He was a deft and scrupulous craftsman, who thought hard about the technique of verse-making; yet his best poems give the impression of spontaneity.

He came from an Ulster farming family, and his roots were in the land. Like Thomas Hardy, whose work he admired and sometimes echoed, he wrote with deep sympathy of humble people leading a  hard life. Growing up a Catholic in County Derry he had a natural sympathy with the Civil Rights  movement of his youth, but he abhorred violence. Inasmuch as his work had any political message, its tendency was to promote reconciliation between the different strands of Irish nationality.

He became an international celebrity, courted by the Mighty, and wasn’t damaged by the experience, walking with Presidents and Prime Ministers, yet keeping the common touch. This was not the least remarkable thing about him.

The Telephone - by Louis Jenkins

The Telephone

- by -

Louis Jenkins

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In the old days telephones were made of
rhinoceros tusk and were big and heavy enough
to be used to fight off an intruder. The telephone
had a special place in the front hallway, a shrine
built into the wall, a niche previously occupied
by the blessed virgin, and when the phone
rang it was serious business. "Hello." "One if
by land and two if by sea." "What?" "Unto you
a child is born." "What?" "What did he say?"
"Something about the Chalmers' barn." The
voice was carried by a single strand of bare wire
running from coast to coast, wrapped around a
Coke bottle stuck on a tree branch, dipping low
over the swamp, it was the party line, all your
neighbors in a row, out one ear and in another.
"We have a bad connection, I'm having trouble
understanding you."

Nowadays telephones are made of recycled
plastic bags and have multiplied to the point
where they have become a major nuisance.
The point might ring at you from anywhere, the
car, the bathroom, under the couch cushions...
Everyone hates the telephone. No one uses the
telephone anymore so telephones, out of habit
or boredom or loneliness perhaps, call one
another. "Please leave a message at the tone."
"I'm sorry, this is a courtesy call. We'll call back at
a more convenient time. There is no message."