New and Selected Poems

by Seamus Heaney

  Here’s two on’s are sophisticated,

  Dabbling in verses till they have become

  A life: from bulky envelopes arriving

  In vacation time to slim volumes

  Despatched ‘with the author’s compliments’.

  Those poems in longhand, ripped from the wire spine

  Of your exercise book, bewildered me –

  Vowels and ideas bandied free

  As the seed-pods blowing off our sycamores.

  I tried to write about the sycamores

  And innovated a South Derry rhyme

  With hushed and lulled full chimes for pushed and pulled.

  Those hobnailed boots from beyond the mountain

  Were walking, by God, all over the fine

  Lawns of elocution.

  Have our accents

  Changed? ‘Catholics, in general, don’t speak

  As well as students from the Protestant schools.’

  Remember that stuff? Inferiority

  Complexes, stuff that dreams were made on.

  ‘What’s your name, Heaney?’

  ‘Heaney, Father.’

  ‘Fair

  Enough.’

  On my first day, the leather strap

  Went epileptic in the Big Study,

  Its echoes plashing over our bowed heads,

  But I still wrote home that a boarder’s life

  Was not so bad, shying as usual.

  On long vacations, then, I came to life

  In the kissing seat of an Austin Sixteen

  Parked at a gable, the engine running,

  My fingers tight as ivy on her shoulders,

  A light left burning for her in the kitchen.

  And heading back for home, the summer’s

  Freedom dwindling night by night, the air

  All moonlight and a scent of hay, policemen

  Swung their crimson flashlamps, crowding round

  The car like black cattle, snuffing and pointing

  The muzzle of a sten-gun in my eye:

  ‘What’s your name, driver?’

  ‘Seamus …’

  Seamus?

  They once read my letters at a roadblock

  And shone their torches on your hieroglyphics,

  ‘Svelte dictions’ in a very florid hand.

  Ulster was British, but with no rights on

  The English lyric: all around us, though

  We hadn’t named it, the ministry of fear.

  2 A Constable Calls

  His bicycle stood at the window-sill,

  The rubber cowl of a mud-splasher

  Skirting the front mudguard,

  Its fat black handlegrips

  Heating in sunlight, the ‘spud’

  Of the dynamo gleaming and cocked back,

  The pedal treads hanging relieved

  Of the boot of the law.

  His cap was upside down

  On the floor, next his chair.

  The line of its pressure ran like a bevel

  In his slightly sweating hair.

  He had unstrapped

  The heavy ledger, and my father

  Was making tillage returns

  In acres, roods, and perches.

  Arithmetic and fear.

  I sat staring at the polished holster

  With its buttoned flap, the braid cord

  Looped into the revolver butt.

  ‘Any other root crops?

  Mangolds? Marrowstems? Anything like that?’

  ‘No.’ But was there not a line

  Of turnips where the seed ran out

  In the potato field? I assumed

  Small guilts and sat

  Imagining the black hole in the barracks.

  He stood up, shifted the baton-case

  Further round on his belt,

  Closed the domesday book,

  Fitted his cap back with two hands,

  And looked at me as he said goodbye.

  A shadow bobbed in the window.

  He was snapping the carrier spring

  Over the ledger. His boot pushed off

  And the bicycle ticked, ticked, ticked.

  4 Summer 1969

  While the Constabulary covered the mob

  Firing into the Falls, I was suffering

  Only the bullying sun of Madrid.

  Each afternoon, in the casserole heat

  Of the flat, as I sweated my way through

  The life of Joyce, stinks from the fishmarket

  Rose like the reek off a flax-dam.

  At night on the balcony, gules of wine,

  A sense of children in their dark corners,

  Old women in black shawls near open windows,

  The air a canyon rivering in Spanish.

  We talked our way home over starlit plains

  Where patent leather of the Guardia Civil

  Gleamed like fish-bellies in flax-poisoned waters.

  ‘Go back,’ one said, ‘try to touch the people.’

  Another conjured Lorca from his hill.

  We sat through death counts and bullfight reports

  On the television, celebrities

  Arrived from where the real thing still happened.

  I retreated to the cool of the Prado.

  Goya’s ‘Shootings of the Third of May’

  Covered a wall – the thrown-up arms

  And spasm of the rebel, the helmeted

  And knapsacked military, the efficient

  Rake of the fusillade. In the next room

  His nightmares, grafted to the palace wall –

  Dark cyclones, hosting, breaking; Saturn

  Jewelled in the blood of his own children,

  Gigantic Chaos turning his brute hips

  Over the world. Also, that holmgang

  Where two berserks club each other to death

  For honour’s sake, greaved in a bog, and sinking.

  He painted with his fists and elbows, flourished

  The stained cape of his heart as history charged.

  5 Fosterage

  For Michael McLaverty

  ‘Description is revelation!’ Royal

  Avenue, Belfast, 1962,

  A Saturday afternoon, glad to meet

  Me, newly cubbed in language, he gripped

  My elbow. ‘Listen. Go your own way.

  Do your own work. Remember

  Katherine Mansfield – I will tell

  How the laundry basket squeaked … that note of exile.’

  But to hell with overstating it:

  ‘Don’t have the veins bulging in your biro.’

  And then, ‘Poor Hopkins!’ I have the Journals

  He gave me, underlined, his buckled self

  Obeisant to their pain. He discerned

  The lineaments of patience everywhere

  And fostered me and sent me out, with words

  Imposing on my tongue like obols.

  6 Exposure

  It is December in Wicklow:

  Alders dripping, birches

  Inheriting the last light,

  The ash tree cold to look at.

  A comet that was lost

  Should be visible at sunset,

  Those million tons of light

  Like a glimmer of haws and rose-hips,

  And I sometimes see a falling star.

  If I could come on meteorite!

  Instead I walk through damp leaves,

  Husks, the spent flukes of autumn,

  Imagining a hero

  On some muddy compound,

  His gift like a slingstone

  Whirled for the desperate.

  How did I end up like this?

  I often think of my friends’

  Beautiful prismatic counselling

  And the anvil brains of some who hate me

  As I sit weighing and weighing

  My responsible tristia.

  For what? For the ear? For the people?

  For what is said behind-backs?

&nbs
p; Rain comes down through the alders,

  Its low conducive voices

  Mutter about let-downs and erosions

  And yet each drop recalls

  The diamond absolutes.

  I am neither internee nor informer;

  An inner émigré, grown long-haired

  And thoughtful; a wood-kerne

  Escaped from the massacre,

  Taking protective colouring

  From bole and bark, feeling

  Every wind that blows;

  Who, blowing up these sparks

  For their meagre heat, have missed

  The once-in-a-lifetime portent,

  The comet’s pulsing rose.

  Oysters

  Our shells clacked on the plates.

  My tongue was a filling estuary,

  My palate hung with starlight:

  As I tasted the salty Pleiades

  Orion dipped his foot into the water.

  Alive and violated,

  They lay on their beds of ice:

  Bivalves: the split bulb

  And philandering sigh of ocean.

  Millions of them ripped and shucked and scattered.

  We had driven to that coast

  Through flowers and limestone

  And there we were, toasting friendship,

  Laying down a perfect memory

  In the cool of thatch and crockery.

  Over the Alps, packed deep in hay and snow,

  The Romans hauled their oysters south to Rome:

  I saw damp panniers disgorge

  The frond-lipped, brine-stung

  Glut of privilege

  And was angry that my trust could not repose

  In the clear light, like poetry or freedom

  Leaning in from sea. I ate the day

  Deliberately, that its tang

  Might quicken me all into verb, pure verb.

  Triptych

  I After a Killing

  There they were, as if our memory hatched them,

  As if the unquiet founders walked again:

  Two young men with rifles on the hill,

  Profane and bracing as their instruments.

  Who’s sorry for our trouble?

  Who dreamt that we might dwell among ourselves

  In rain and scoured light and wind-dried stones?

  Basalt, blood, water, headstones, leeches.

  In that neuter original loneliness

  From Brandon to Dunseverick

  I think of small-eyed survivor flowers,

  The pined-for, unmolested orchid.

  I see a stone house by a pier.

  Elbow room. Broad window light.

  The heart lifts. You walk twenty yards

  To the boats and buy mackerel.

  And today a girl walks in home to us

  Carrying a basket full of new potatoes,

  Three tight green cabbages, and carrots

  With the tops and mould still fresh on them.

  II Sibyl

  My tongue moved, a swung relaxing hinge.

  I said to her, ‘What will become of us?’

  And as forgotten water in a well might shake

  At an explosion under morning

  Or a crack run up a gable,

  She began to speak.

  ‘I think our very form is bound to change.

  Dogs in a siege. Saurian relapses. Pismires.

  Unless forgiveness finds its nerve and voice,

  Unless the helmeted and bleeding tree

  Can green and open buds like infants’ fists

  And the fouled magma incubate

  Bright nymphs … My people think money

  And talk weather. Oil-rigs lull their future

  On single acquisitive stems. Silence

  Has shoaled into the trawlers’ echo-sounders.

  The ground we kept our ear to for so long

  Is flayed or calloused, and its entrails

  Tented by an impious augury.

  Our island is full of comfortless noises.’

  III At the Water’s Edge

  On Devenish I heard a snipe

  And the keeper’s recital of elegies

  Under the tower. Carved monastic heads

  Were crumbling like bread on water.

  On Boa the god-eyed, sex-mouthed stone

  Socketed between graves, two-faced, trepanned,

  Answered my silence with silence.

  A stoup for rain water. Anathema.

  From a cold hearthstone on Horse Island

  I watched the sky beyond the open chimney

  And listened to the thick rotations

  Of an army helicopter patrolling.

  A hammer and a cracked jug full of cobwebs

  Lay on the window-sill. Everything in me

  Wanted to bow down, to offer up,

  To go barefoot, foetal and penitential,

  And pray at the water’s edge.

  How we crept before we walked! I remembered

  The helicopter shadowing our march at Newry,

  The scared, irrevocable steps.

  The Toome Road

  One morning early I met armoured cars

  In convoy, warbling along on powerful tyres,

  All camouflaged with broken alder branches,

  And headphoned soldiers standing up in turrets.

  How long were they approaching down my roads

  As if they owned them? The whole country was sleeping.

  I had rights-of-way, fields, cattle in my keeping,

  Tractors hitched to buckrakes in open sheds,

  Silos, chill gates, wet slates, the greens and reds

  Of outhouse roofs. Whom should I run to tell

  Among all of those with their back doors on the latch

  For the bringer of bad news, that small-hours visitant

  Who, by being expected, might be kept distant?

  Sowers of seed, erectors of headstones …

  Ο charioteers, above your dormant guns,

  It stands here still, stands vibrant as you pass,

  The invisible, untoppled omphalos.

  A Drink of Water

  She came every morning to draw water

  Like an old bat staggering up the field:

  The pump’s whooping cough, the bucket’s clatter

  And slow diminuendo as it filled,

  Announced her. I recall

  Her grey apron, the pocked white enamel

  Of the brimming bucket, and the treble