Seamus Heaney: I use poetry to examine myself and make the echoes of darkness resonate | A poem and a moment

In nearly a century, few poets have lived as smoothly and brilliantly as Shelmers Heaney. As Heaney said in an interview with the Paris Review at the age of 55, his luck is not only in his poetry, but also in all aspects of his life: "First of all, I consider myself lucky to find a way into poetry writing. Then it was my early work that won praise, and the solidity of my life's direction and identity that came with it, in harmony with love—I saw it as a true blessing. And, of course, it all comes with friendship, a happy family, and the trust of loved ones. ”

Born in 1939 to a pious Catholic family in Derryshire, Northern Ireland, Heaney received a formal British education from an early age and graduated first in English at Queen's University Belfast in 1961. After that, he worked as a secondary school teacher for a while, reading a lot of English and Irish literature at the same time, and gradually turned to freelance writing. In 1966, Heaney published his first collection of poems, The Death of a Naturalist, which immediately caused a sensation, and more than ten other poetry collections such as "The Door to Darkness", "Wintering", and "North" also maintained good results. In addition, Heaney was one of the most important poetic critics in the English-speaking world, on a par with Joseph Brodsky.

Despite being born in Northern Ireland under British rule and raised with a traditional British education, Heaney has always been Irish-centric in his culture and beliefs. Schisms and contradictions in blood, identity, and religion form compelling threads in Heaney's poetry, and he often incorporates his real life experiences into his writings. In 1995, Heaney was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature for "his work full of lyrical beauty and a deep understanding of ethics, highlighting the wonders of everyday life and the realism of history" and was called "the greatest Irish poet after Yeats".

The recently published collection of poems, The Death of a Naturalist, includes a hundred poems by Heaney, but unlike previous collections, the editors of this collection are Heaney's family and friends, including his wife Mary, children Mike, Chris, and Catherine. As a result, the book includes not only acclaimed masterpieces, but also some works of special significance for individuals. These works deal with the lives and memories of poets and their loved ones, and in a sense, the most important window into the life and thoughts of poets. With the permission of the publisher, Interface Culture (ID: BooksAndFun) selects some of the poems from it for the benefit of readers.

<h3></h3>

scaffold

Craftsmen carefully check the scaffolding before starting to build:

Make sure the pedals are not loosened during a hustle and bustle, reinforce all steps, and tighten the nuts.

But when it's finished, everything is torn down, revealing the solid stone walls.

So, my dear, if the old bridge between you and me is going to fall apart,

Don't be afraid. You might as well let the scaffolding fall,

But the stone walls we built were safe.

<h3>A fountain of personal poetry</h3>

To Michael Langley

When I was a child, no one could tell me to leave the well

And the old pumping station with winch and bucket barrel.

I love the dark bottom of the well, the deep sky,

Smell of aquatic weeds, fungi and wet moss.

The brickyard had a well covered with decaying planks.

I've tasted when the rope is exhausted

The loud crash of a bucket falling.

The bottom of the deep well could not even see the shadow.

There is a shallow well under the dry masonry canal

But it flourishes like an aquarium.

If you pluck the long rhizomes from the soft grass

A white face appeared at the bottom of the well.

Other wells have echoes that take your cries

Return with a new musical note. There is a bite

It's scary, fern grass and tall foxglove bushes

Suddenly, a rat smashed my reflection.

Now, if you still dig for the roots, and explore the slime,

Like the big-eyed Lycassos staring at some spring,

That would be detrimental to the dignity of adults. I use poetry

Come and see yourself and let the echoes of darkness resonate.

Translation Notes:

[1] Michael Longley (1939-), Northern Irish poet and colleague of Heaney.

[2] In ancient Greek mythology, the fairy Erkka (meaning sound, echo) of Mount Helikon (where the spring of poetry is located) fell in love with the beautiful man Narcoussus, and after being rejected, he died of sadness, leaving only the sound to echo; Narcissus was also punished by the gods, indulging in his own water reflections, and turning into daffodils after death.

<h3>A glass of water</h3>

Every morning she would come and fetch water

Like an old bat stumbling:

Pump well pertussis, bucket bang dang

and notes that slowly fade when full

They are all announcing for her. I think back

Her gray apron, full of buckets

Mottled white enamel, her sharp voice

Like a pressurized water handle creaking.

Every night, when the full moon rises over the gables

He came in through the window ledge and fell in

She placed the glass of water on the table.

I went back there and drank.

And to remember the admonition inscribed on her cup,

"Drinking water and thinking about the source", into the lips.

[1] The woman in the poem is an elderly woman living alone in Heaney's hometown, and the children of the village think of her as a witch.

<h3>skunk</h3>

Upright, pitch black, draped in stripes and brocade,

Like the robes of sacrifice at funeral Mass, the big tail of the skunk

Advertised as skunks. Night after night

I expect her like a visitor.

The refrigerator hissed into silence.

My desk lamp gradually softened outside the hallway.

Tiny oranges loomed on the orange trees.

I began to get nervous like a voyeur.

Eleven years later, I wrote again

Love letter, chiseling off the word "wife"

Like an aged wine barrel, as if it were a delicate vowel

Has been curved into California night

Earthy and scented. That's beautiful and useless

The pungent taste of eucalyptus indicates your absence.

A big mouthful of alcohol is like

Take a breath from the cold pillow that takes you in.

And she's there, enthusiastic and charming,

Everyday, mysterious skunk,

Mythical, non-mythical,

Sniffing at the cardboard box five feet away from me.

Last night, it all went back again, like a cart of coal

You buried me in an instant before going to bed,

Your head is low, your tail is upturned, and you're in the bottom drawer

Look for that black ultra-low-cut pajamas.

[1] The North American skunk is a small animal commonly found near suburban dwellings, with predominantly black fur, broad white longitudinal stripes on both sides of the back, and often spots between the foreheads or chest. The poem plays a description of heraldry here, such as: leaping black lion on the bottom of the striped flower.

<h3>Kite for Mike and Christopher</h3>

All Sunday afternoon

Kites fly high on Sundays,

Tight drum skin, blown-out wheat bran.

I've seen it look gray and slimy when it's made.

I've photographed it when it's dry and white and stiff.

I also glued the snare made of old newspapers

It has a six-foot-long tail.

But at the moment it was like a little black lark swaying upwards,

At the moment it was tugging at the silk thread under its abdomen

It's like a rope that drags up wet water

Salvage catches.

Friends say that the soul of man

It weighs as much as a sandpiper

But the soul that anchors in the air,

The silk thread that hangs and climbs high,

But it weighs like a furrow rising up to the heavens.

Before the kite falls into the woods

This line loses its effect before

Hold it in your hands, children,

Feel the trembling, deep-rooted, long-tailed, sad pull.

You are born to correspond to it.

Come, stand before me,

Grasp this tightness.

[1] Mike and Christopher were Heaney's sons, born in 1966 and 1968, respectively.

<h3>Conway Stewer Pen</h3>

"Medium", 14-karat gold nib,

Three golden circles with a screw-toothed pen cap with a pen clip,

The color pen has a small spoon on it

Pump the upper ink rod

Shop owner

Show me,

The tip of the pen is sheathed,

Please put it in a newly opened ink bottle

Enjoy your first deep dive,

Sticky, slippery,

Plug it in and find an angle

Suck slowly,

Let's have time

Watch together, don't care

We were supposed to part in the evening,

And I was the next day

Calligraphy to write to them:

"Dear".

[1] When Heaney was admitted to St. Collins' Secondary School in Delhi, his parents bought him a Conway Stewart fountain pen, a brand that was very popular with young people at the time.

[2] The signature design of the pen is to make the wrench of the piston ink device on the outside of the body of the flower celluloid pen, which is slightly like a small round spoon with a long handle, which is very delicate.

<h3>Timing is in tune</h3>

To Shivra

Energy, Balance, Burst:

Listen to Bach

I can see you years later

(Far after the age I deserved)

Toddler babies have grown

A steady big girl.

Your barefoot steps on the floor

Lead me step by step; a force

Like I used to have cement flooring in our house

The first time I felt it, it rose up

Touch your soles and heels

And get you real grounded here.

A oratorio

It will be what you want:

Energy, balance, burst

Swing freely

But for now, let's be in tune with each other

Take a gentle step, silently.

[1] Síofra was Heaney's youngest granddaughter, who was 2 years old at the time.

[2] Oratorio, also known as divine drama, is a large-scale musical work with religious themes. Heaney conceived the poem while listening to the BBC Proms show playing Bach's resurrection and ascension to heaven.

The poems in this article are selected from the book The Death of a Naturalist: 100 Poems of Heaney, and are published with the permission of the publisher.