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Seamus Heaney

Seamus Heaney

Song

A rowan like a lipsticked girl.
Between the by-road and the main road
Alder trees at a wet and dripping distance
Stand off among the rushes.
 
There are the mud-flowers of dialect
And the immortelles of perfect pitch
And that moment when the bird sings very close
To the music of what happens.

#Irish #NobelPrize #XXCentury #XXICentury

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We have no prairies To slice a big sun at evening— Everywhere the eye concedes to Encrouching horizon, Is wooed into the cyclops’ eye
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There was a sunlit absence. The helmeted pump in the yard heated its iron, water honeyed in the slung bucket
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I can feel the tug of the halter at the nape of her neck, the wind on her naked front. It blows her nipples
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Donati's Comet,, by William Turner of Oxford
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It is December in Wicklow: Alders dripping, birches Inheriting the last light, The ash tree cold to look at. A comet that was lost
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So winter closed its fist And got it stuck in the pump. The plunger froze up a lump In its throat, ice founding itself Upon iron. The handle
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