It is always a sad day when a favorite writer dies. This morning, came the news that Irish poet and Nobel Prize-winner Seamus Heaney died at the age of 74. We have written about Heaney here at BFGB before, about his masterful translation of Beowulf and his delightful collection Human Chain. I do not think I can describe Heaney’s work better than to repeat what I wrote about Human Chain:
[Heaney] writes thoughtful, thought-provoking, poems that display a love of language and life. Since the 1960s, Heaney has used his poems to explore the natural world, farming and farmwork, the violence that shattered his native Ireland, the intersections of the Irish and English languages, and above all his own place in the world.
Knowing that there will not be a new work from such a wonderful writer makes the day seem dreary and sad. But at least there is a powerful and extensive set of work to go back to. Here is one of my favorite poems from Heaney’s collection Opened Ground.
The Skylight
You were the one for skylights. I opposed
Cutting into the seasoned tongue-and-groove
Of pitch pine. I liked it low and closed,
Its claustrophobic, nest-up-in-the-roof
Effect. I liked the snuff-dry feeling,
The perfect, trunk-lid fit of the old ceiling.
Under there, it was all hutch and hatch.
The blue slates kept the heat like midnight thatch.
But when the slates came off, extravagant
Sky entered and held surprise wide open.
For days I felt like an inhabitant
Of that house where the man sick of the palsy
Was lowered through the roof, had his sins forgiven,
Was healed, took up his bed and walked away.
Blogging for a Good Book 
Reblogged this on isidorocgomezofficial.
he kept a torch on many issues, may he enjoy his rest
Indeed!
A tremendous loss. Loved his translation of Beowulf.
I completely agree, Jeff; it is a sad day.
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Reblogged this on Rosemarie Cawkwell and commented:
I love his translation of Beowulf, such a sad loss.
Very sad indeed.
Reblogged this on dearest vice, and commented:
Opened Ground was the first book of collected poetry I ever purchased. I’d read poetry before, appreciated poetry before. But this work, Heaney’s, I needed to own. Tangible, whole, something I could hold in my hands, set a drink down on, leave in a hotel room. So I bought the nicest copy I could afford–which is to say, not very nice at all–and immediately gave it away as a Christmas gift to an inquisitive ginger-haired girl, a friend I dearly hoped might be more than just a friend.
Years later, that girl is my wife, and that copy of Opened Ground sits on a bookshelf in our living room. And Seamus Heaney, a dear friend whose acquaintance I never got the chance to make, has laid down his pen at last.
Farewell, indeed,
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Reblogged this on Endorat's World and commented:
Rest in Peace, father!!