Seamus Heaney 1939-2013

Seamus Heaney was an Irish poet, playwright, translator and lecturer, and the recipient of the 1995 Nobel Prize in Literature.

Born at Mossbawn farmhouse between Castledawson and Toomebridge, County Derry, he resided in Dublin until his death.

From "Digging"

My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.

Death of a Naturalist 1966

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moon metro

Moon Metro subterranean subway car sped through optical tunnels.

Outside, an old Turkish man wearing a crumpled white hat walked with his wife.

She is his noun. He is her verb, her action.

Just get to the verb, he whispered.

Their language is filled with autumn browns, yellows, greens, golds, sparrows, blue jays, and love’s doves.

Far away on Memories Street, a street of regrets spilling potential, Passion danced with Death.

Moon Metro picks up speed hurtling through space-time.

Silent, salient passengers wear sad eyed desire.

They crave sleep in a tyranny of sheep-less-mess. 

 

After my tongue

After they cut out my tongue I started writing script.

I found a compressed black Chinese ink stick with yellow dragons breathing fire. I added a little water to a grey stone surface and placed the ink in the center.

Then, using my right hand, as Master Liu in Chengdu showed me, I turned the stick in a clockwise motion. Black ink ebbed into liquid as a drop of water rippled a pond.

After collecting ink I picked up my long heavy brown brush. Pure white hair. After soaking it in water for three minutes to relax it’s inner tension I spread out thin delicate paper.

I placed my right foot at an angle, left foot straight, my left palm flat on the table with fingers spread. I dipped the brush in the recessed part of the stone to absorb ink then slowly dragged it along an edge removing excess.

I savored the weight and heft. My brush has it own personality and character.       

There are at least 5,000 characters in my written language. I have much to learn and a long way to travel with this unknowing truth.

I sat up straight, took three deep breaths and exhaled far out into emptiness.

I centered my unconscious on the paper filled with nothing.

My wisdom mind of intent became water. It was quiet, calm and still with concentration and focus.

I listened to brush, ink and paper. I am a conduit.

Be the brush, be the ink, be the water, be the paper.

Each essence is pure, free, clear and luminous.

A Century is Nothing

unsayable

"I think there are always two sides, and one of them is the unsayable. The utterly singular. Who you are; who you can never tell anybody. And on the other hand, there is what you can express. How do we know about this thing we talk about? Because we talk about it. We're using words. And the words never say it, but the words are all we have to say it."

  - W. S. Merwin  Read more…

Through the center

I climbed through the center of Bali inside magical light past an extinct sacred volcano at Lake Batur carrying spare ammunition, a small portable typewriter, a map carved on narwhal bone, a roll of scented four-ply toilet paper, codices or painted books and texts on bark paper called Amate, and cactus fiber including palimpsest animal skins and dialogue of Mayan origin.

My hair caught fire. Gathering flames I lit a piece of bark for guidance.

I mixed volcanic ash with water, creating a thick paste of red ocher, a cosmetic balm rich with antioxidants.

I applied this to my skin to gain entry and passage through the spirit world of ancestors. 

Source: A Century is Nothing.