Seamus Heaney: A True Inspiration

August 20th 2018

Hey world.

Last week, I took a drive through the rolling countryside of County Derry in Northern Ireland and visited the Seamus Heaney Home Place in Bellaghy County Derry. I had been looking forward to coming here all summer, and I was so excited to learn more about Northern Ireland’s most beloved poet. My family (especially my mother who is from Northern Ireland) has always been a massive fan of Seamus Heaney's work, so it was incredible to go to an entire centre dedicated to him and his work. We also visited his grave nearby.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with this poet, I will provide a quick biography:
Seamus Heaney was born on April 13, 1939 on a farm in the Castledàwson in County Londonderry, the first of nine children in a Catholic family. He received a scholarship to attend the boarding school St. Columb's College in Derry and went on to Queens University in Belfast, studying English and graduating in 1961. Heaney worked as a schoolteacher for a time before becoming a college lecturer (he taught my grandfather.) In 1965, he married Marie Devlin, a fellow writer who would figure prominently in Heaney's work. The couple went on to have three children.

Seamus Heaney had his poetry collection debut in 1966 with Death of a Naturalist, and went on to publish many more highly praised books of poems that included North (1974), Station Island (1984), The Spirit Level (1996) and District and Circle (2006). Over the years, he also became known for his prose writing and work as an editor, as well as serving as a professor at Harvard and Oxford universities.

Heaney was later applauded for his translation of the epic poem Beowulf (2000), a global best-seller for which he won the Whitbread Prize. He had also crafted translations of Laments, by Jan Kochanowski, Sophocles's Philoctetes and Robert Henryson's The Testament of Cresseid & Seven Fables.

Heaney was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1995 and later received England's T.S. Eliot and David Cohen prizes, among a wide array of accolades. Heaney was the fourth Irish Nobel Prize winner in Literature after a long line of highly acclaimed authors,playwrights, and poets alike including: W. B Yeats (1923), George Bernard Shaw (1925) and Samuel Beckett (1969). He was known for his speaking engagements as well, and, as such, traveled across the world to share his art and ideas.

The centre is fantastic, and it is wonderfuly designed. The walls are covered in a collage of his work and photographs of him and his family. I spent an entire day here mesmerized by his work, and the spells that he casts with his words. As I was reading his poetry, a quote by T.S. Eliot came to mind that perfcetly illustrated how I felt:

“Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.”

This is very true.
As I read his poetry, I felt before I understood what the poem was about. I think it takes immense talent to acheive this in poetry. I always say to understand a poem you have to dig it up and get it under your nails, like soil. You have to immerse yourself in it. At the front desk visitors recieve an audio tour guide, and you can listen to Seamus Heaney himself read his poetry. There was something eerie about the way his voice was whispering both in my ear and in the ears of all the people around me in the half-lit exhibits.

Because he has written so much incredible poetry, I found it very hard to pick one to analize and include in this post. Therefore, I have included three of my favourite Seamus Heaney poems to give Seamus Heaney beginners a taster, as well as a full anaysis on ‘Scaffolding’ futher down.

The Wishing Tree

I thought of her as the wishing tree that died
And saw it lifted, root and branch, to heaven,
Trailing a shower of all that had been driven

Need by need by need into its hale
Sap-wood and bark: coin and pin and nail
Came streaming from it like a comet-tail

New-minted and dissolved. I had a vision
Of an airy branch-head rising through damp cloud,
Of turned-up faces where the tree had stood.

Blackberry-Picking

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full,
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.

Follower

My father worked with a horse-plough,
His shoulders globed like a full sail strung
Between the shafts and the furrow.
The horse strained at his clicking tongue.

An expert. He would set the wing
And fit the bright steel-pointed sock.
The sod rolled over without breaking.
At the headrig, with a single pluck

Of reins, the sweating team turned round
And back into the land. His eye
Narrowed and angled at the ground,
Mapping the furrow exactly.

I stumbled in his hob-nailed wake,
Fell sometimes on the polished sod;
Sometimes he rode me on his back
Dipping and rising to his plod.

I wanted to grow up and plough,
To close one eye, stiffen my arm.
All I ever did was follow
In his broad shadow round the farm.

I was a nuisance, tripping, falling,
Yapping always. But today
It is my father who keeps stumbling
Behind me, and will not go away.

Scaffolding

Masons, when they start upon a building,
Are careful to test out the scaffolding;

Make sure that planks won’t slip at busy points,
Secure all ladders, tighten bolted joints.

And yet all this comes down when the job’s done
Showing off walls of sure and solid stone.

So if, my dear, there sometimes seem to be
Old bridges breaking between you and me

Never fear. We may let the scaffolds fall
Confident that we have built our wall.

This is a prime example of a poem that I felt before I fully understood what it was about.This poem is about Seamus Heaney having a quarrel with someone close to him. In an interview he revealed that he wrote this poem for his wife Marie, and gave it to her after a row. To me, this is a poem of reconciliation, a poem of healing and mending relationships.
All relationships will have experienced rocky or uncertain times in the past, it is part of what makes a relationship real. This poem is also a celebration of the effort that goes into building and maintaining a healthy relationship.

This poem is constucted of metaphors. The ultimate metaphor in this poem is the title: scaffolding. In the first two couplets of this poem Heaney uses both metaphorical and literal langauge. He describes the masons, who are literally securing ladders and tightening bolts. The ‘masons‘ however can be interpreted more metaphorically as the people who are experiencing the rocky times with a friend or loved one. The securing and tightening of all these things are what makes a relationship strong. The building blocks are trust, honesty, and respect etcetera. Continuing with the metaphorical language, the words ‘busy points’ demonstrate this concept. Just as weight puts stress on a structure, numerous difficulties in life test our relationships time and time again.

Heaney then proceeds to talk about the scaffolding ’...coming down when the job is done‘, ‘Showing off walls of sure and solid stone’. To me, this is where the poem starts to get poignant and tugs at the reader‘s heartstrings a little. All the scaffolding coming down is yet another metaphor to say that both him and his wife have forgiven each other. Once the ‘job’s done‘, (a metaphor for the day to day construction of a true relationship) the relationship between the two people is ever strengthened: ‘Showing off walls of sure and solid stone’. The following couplet confirms the concept of quarrels (‘Old bridges breaking’) between people who are close (Heaney uses the phrase ‘My dear’) and who are having difficult times.

What made me truly fall in love with the poem were the last two lines.
Heaney assures his readers that if they are having uncertain times, and they feel that ‘old bridges are breaking’, they should ‘Never fear. We may let the scaffolds fall’, ’Confident that we have built our wall.’ They are assured that their relationship has been secured, and now they are stronger than ever.

This poem is a gorgeous, beautifully written reminder that it is normal to have uncertain times while building a relationship. If anything it makes it stronger, and bring those involved closer together.

His language is so powerful because it uses nature, love and memory to create truly indelible poems that recreate universal human experiences.The poet himself may be gone, but his work and legacy will continue to inspire people all over the world.

I will finish with a touching quote from Seamus Heaney that is inscribed on his gravestone:

“Walk on air, against your better judgment.”

-A. Heezen