The pen now idle
a way of telling silenced
next Tollund Man dies.
.
From furrow fertile
blackberries ripe each August
anniversary.
.
Bogs will keep crusting
between the sights of the sun
as you rest below.
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The pen now idle
a way of telling silenced
next Tollund Man dies.
.
From furrow fertile
blackberries ripe each August
anniversary.
.
Bogs will keep crusting
between the sights of the sun
as you rest below.
I saw the Tollund man as a kid. I didn’t quite grasp the significance until later. The face is absolutely amazing. Actually, come to think of it, there’s something vaguely Heaneyesque about his benign, avuncular smile and the kindly eyes he seems to have. A very nice tribute, Mike. Sort of a remix.
Remix – that’s it, well termed. Where I stated that Heaney would become another Tollund Man I was alluding to the longevity of his works but I’m delighted with your observation of a physical similarity – it seems very appropriate. Thank you for your perspicuous contributions here.
A fine honouring friend
Thanks Michael, much appreciated.
Your’s is a name that features in my list of fine Irish poets as well
A beautiful tribute to a great man. I have really enjoyed reading your work. Thank you for visiting SurreyKitchen. Emma.
Kind words Emma – many thanks.
a wonderful tribute
Thank you kindly. The web lit up with millions of bloggers who instinctively showed their grief and respect in this manner.
I love this, especially furrow and crusting…
The ‘crusting’ is lifted directly from Heaney’s own, ‘Bogland’. I tried to include terms from his lexicon. Thank you for your observation.
Lovely tribute to a great poet.
I appreciate your kind words Libby. Great man indeed.
Men like Mr Heaney are a rarity. The words mattered and inspired us to write our own. Thank you for this. RIP Seamus (Rest In Poetry).
A very apt (and original) improvement on a jaded acronym. Thanks for your acknowledgement.
As wonderful as it is short, I stopped to ponder over every line.
Admittedly I only own his translation of Beuwulf and not a collection of his own. I aim to change that.
Ireland lost one man but a thousand-thousand words. Your poem praises beautifully well, Mike!
Thanks Brent and I notice how in the day since I wrote that, similar works of homage have flooded the blogosphere and social media – he has generated more words in death than he did himself in life and I suspect he would be quite chuffed at this. Decide which collection to buy by sampling the extracts available all over the web. You’ll find new meaning in my words once you have read ‘Blackberry Picking’, ‘Bogland’ and ‘The Tollund Man’.
It is early morning here in Canada and I am off to the market and bookstore(s). If I don’t come back with a collection of his I’ll be saddened! Though it’s saddening in itself that it took death to make me do so. Such is the way of life, oddly enough sometimes. I will check out those three poems of his before I head out the door.
Terse words for a long peal of time, a good, an only, place , for such as he to rest.
I think my brevity stemmed from shock Simon but for me, that’s apt. Your fine words of fealty are first-rate. Thank you for your appreciation.
I think it was fitting and perfect as it was. Each word a door to other rooms. No need for more. No need for less.
I am sure all of Ireland mourns. My condolences to you, his family and Ireland itself.
You have a heart of gold Phoebe. Look up ‘Mid Term Break’ or ‘Bogland’…
Love the line: “bogs will keep crusting”. And oh! That blackberry poem! A great loss today. Posting mid-term break a perfect introduction .
You know your Heaney! Thank you for these kind affirmations.
Immortality is his, as long as someone absorbs his words.
True and appropriate.
I will show my ignorance here and say that other than being familiar with the name, I really know nothing about the man as a poet. But I’ve always thought the name was cool… I mean how could you not be a famous writer with a name like that?!?
And a cool man – here’s an introduction:
Mid-Term Break
I sat all morning in the college sick bay
Counting bells knelling classes to a close.
At two o’clock our neighbors drove me home.
In the porch I met my father crying–
He had always taken funerals in his stride–
And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.
The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram
When I came in, and I was embarrassed
By old men standing up to shake my hand
And tell me they were ‘sorry for my trouble,’
Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest,
Away at school, as my mother held my hand
In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs.
At ten o’clock the ambulance arrived
With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.
Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops
And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him
For the first time in six weeks. Paler now,
Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple,
He lay in the four foot box as in his cot.
No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.
A four foot box, a foot for every year.
Beautiful poem! I must claim complete ignorance of Mr. Heaney. What I gem I almost missed.
You’ve plenty time – he’ll be around long after you and I are gone (:
🙂
Sad news today, but if his life and death inspire such words as yours, he’ll go on living.
Thanks RT – he spawned many fine works in the blogosphere today.
With your permission Mike I will post this on twitter.
Chris.
With attribution please Chris.
Consider it done.
Chris.