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Two buckets were easier carried than one. / I grew up in between.

Seamus Heaney

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Seamus Heaney
Age: 74 †
Born: 1939
Born: April 13
Died: 2013
Died: August 30
Actor
Author
Linguist
Playwright
Poet
Translator
University Teacher
Writer
Seamus Justin Heaney
Seamus Heaney
Buckets
Carried
Easier
Grew
Two

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But even so, none of the news of these world-spasms entered me as terror.
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I've nothing against the Queen personally: I had lunch at the Palace once upon a time.
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In off the moors, down through the mist beams, god-cursed Grendel came greedily loping.
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Once off the bush The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour. I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot. Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not. -Blackberry picking
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I've always associated the moment of writing with a moment of lift, of joy, of unexpected reward.
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Even if the last move did not succeed, the inner command says move again.
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Suspect too much sweet talk but never close your mind.
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Allow ourselves to do as Ram Dass said in his delicious phrase Be Here Now. If you are here now you cannot fall into falsely constructed gender projections.
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Poetry cannot afford to lose its fundamentally self-delighting inventiveness, its joy in being a process of language as well as a representation of things in the world.
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I might enjoy being an albatross, being able to glide for days and daydream for hundreds of miles along the thermals. And then being able to hang like an affliction round some people's necks.
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I have always thought of poems as stepping stones in one's own sense of oneself.
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The completely solitary self: that's where poetry comes from, and it gets isolated by crisis, and those crises are often very intimate also.
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I have always thought of poems as stepping stones in one's own sense of oneself. Every now and again, you write a poem that gives you self-respect and steadies your going a little bit farther out in the stream. At the same time, you have to conjure the next stepping stone because the stream, we hope, keeps flowing.
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Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests snug as a gun. ~from the poem Digging
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My body was braille for the creeping influences.
Seamus Heaney
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Harvard created wonderful conditions for me as a writerbut the writing was done, almost entirely, when I got home.
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I have begun to think of life as a series of ripples widening out from an original center.
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In fact, in lyric poetry, truthfulness becomes recognizable as a ring of truth within the medium itself.
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Irish readers, British readers, American readers: is it odd that I haven't a clue about how differently they react? Or better say, I cannot find the words to describe my hunch about them.
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Sink every impulse like a bolt. Secure The bastion of sensation. Do not waver Into language. Do not waver in it.
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