So glad to have discovered your corner of Substack. I’ve taught that poem many times—as an example of an ars poetica. It really strikes to the heart of what poetry does (and how it does it)—how we dig into our memories and experiences hoping to find the “good dirt.”
I am such a fan of Heaney. As a teacher, I have been lucky to read the same poem many, many, many times more than I probably would on my own, and that has been a gift. I love essay here. It was a beautiful piece to read on a sunny Sunday morning.
This is a lovely piece. I'm so glad you wrote it and posted it here for us to enjoy. However, I'm stuck on this:
"There is an immediacy to childhood that once we master language never quite comes back. In the absence of abstract thought, we know ourselves moment to moment by the world around us and what we can hold in our hands. There is no story to navigate, only raw experience."
I don't think children lack abstract thought. And mastery of language comes so early, unless you mean written language. But I do get the raw experience bit. How true that is. Still, because of my upbringing, I was dogged by the abstract early on (religion, religion, religion, jesus, etc.)
For me, the experience that evokes what you are getting at here is being on the school bus with a friend and tickling each other to the point of screaming with joy. So free to just...be tickled to death.
Seamus Heaney was a regular at the bar in a restaurant I waited tables at in Harvard Square in college. I used to plop myself down beside him to chat; I called him Famous Seamus. “What’s up, Famous Seamus?” Can you imagine what a little twit I was?! He was friendly and gruff, and told me and my friend we were wasting time digging around in poetry and should be out living our lives. Having fun. Lord have mercy.
Beautiful, Steve. I found this line especially profound: "Poems are infinity mirrors, a paradox of surface and depth." After reading it, I conjured an image of a piece of glass art in the Fort Wayne Museum of Art's glass wing that always captivates me. It's called "Intimation of Mortality," and this is the description included next to the title and name of the artist (Tim Tate):
"Blending a traditional craft with new media technology, Tim Tate is spearheading a new glass movement. Departing from the 20th century’s heavy emphasis of form and technique, Tate believes that the new century of glass sculpture will be defined by artistic vision. 'Intimation of Immortality' is a prime example of Tate’s interest in combining glass with technology. Likely inspired by the traumatic experience of losing many friends to the AIDS epidemic, the artist states, 'The beauty of endless mirrors is in creating a space that exists nowhere else on Earth. It is said that if you see past 13 images, you are seeing into the next world. Therefore, somewhere in that ambiguous zone between our world and infinity is the place where worlds meet. That’s the place to be. It is the place where, if only for a brief moment, everything and everyone is immortal.'”
And in the last segment of your essay today, I thought of something I read last week by Henri Nouwen, in which he described how a famous trapeze artist (whose name I can't recall now) responded to the inquiry, "Why are you walking between two skyscrapers in New York City?" He shrugged and said, "When I see two buildings connected by a rope, I want to walk it."
Nouwen explained that the most profound answers are often the most puzzling, distilled into their simplest derivatives. He said that children do that naturally, of course: "Why are you playing with the ball right now?" The kid says, "I saw a ball, and I wanted to play."
I thought how adults tend to complicate everything, when really the truest reason for what we do and believe and say is often the most obvious.
This is a lovely memory. I was fortunate, doing a PhD in Irish Studies, that Seamus Heaney’s best friend was another Seamus (Deane), author of Reading in the Dark and criticism, and director of our program. We had time to spend with Seamus Heaney and he and his wife were very kind. Digging is one of the best poems - so many layers of history and memory.
Wow, such a beautifully written and descriptive piece! Thank you for sharing.
So glad to have discovered your corner of Substack. I’ve taught that poem many times—as an example of an ars poetica. It really strikes to the heart of what poetry does (and how it does it)—how we dig into our memories and experiences hoping to find the “good dirt.”
Truly! Nice to meet you too!
I am such a fan of Heaney. As a teacher, I have been lucky to read the same poem many, many, many times more than I probably would on my own, and that has been a gift. I love essay here. It was a beautiful piece to read on a sunny Sunday morning.
Thank you so much!
This is a lovely piece. I'm so glad you wrote it and posted it here for us to enjoy. However, I'm stuck on this:
"There is an immediacy to childhood that once we master language never quite comes back. In the absence of abstract thought, we know ourselves moment to moment by the world around us and what we can hold in our hands. There is no story to navigate, only raw experience."
I don't think children lack abstract thought. And mastery of language comes so early, unless you mean written language. But I do get the raw experience bit. How true that is. Still, because of my upbringing, I was dogged by the abstract early on (religion, religion, religion, jesus, etc.)
For me, the experience that evokes what you are getting at here is being on the school bus with a friend and tickling each other to the point of screaming with joy. So free to just...be tickled to death.
It felt good to read your post, Steve...thank you for your memories.
🙏🙏🙏
Seamus Heaney was a regular at the bar in a restaurant I waited tables at in Harvard Square in college. I used to plop myself down beside him to chat; I called him Famous Seamus. “What’s up, Famous Seamus?” Can you imagine what a little twit I was?! He was friendly and gruff, and told me and my friend we were wasting time digging around in poetry and should be out living our lives. Having fun. Lord have mercy.
Ha! I love it! I saw him once in Harvard Square in 2004, just walking down the sidewalk. Jamaica Kincaid, too. What a world! Where did you work?
One Potato, Two Potato. Oh, the stories!!!!
I can only imagine! Such a great corner of the world.
Love the immediacy of your tone as you tell us these stories. Off to find some Seamus Heaney poetry and discover him for myself.
Beautiful, Steve. I found this line especially profound: "Poems are infinity mirrors, a paradox of surface and depth." After reading it, I conjured an image of a piece of glass art in the Fort Wayne Museum of Art's glass wing that always captivates me. It's called "Intimation of Mortality," and this is the description included next to the title and name of the artist (Tim Tate):
"Blending a traditional craft with new media technology, Tim Tate is spearheading a new glass movement. Departing from the 20th century’s heavy emphasis of form and technique, Tate believes that the new century of glass sculpture will be defined by artistic vision. 'Intimation of Immortality' is a prime example of Tate’s interest in combining glass with technology. Likely inspired by the traumatic experience of losing many friends to the AIDS epidemic, the artist states, 'The beauty of endless mirrors is in creating a space that exists nowhere else on Earth. It is said that if you see past 13 images, you are seeing into the next world. Therefore, somewhere in that ambiguous zone between our world and infinity is the place where worlds meet. That’s the place to be. It is the place where, if only for a brief moment, everything and everyone is immortal.'”
And in the last segment of your essay today, I thought of something I read last week by Henri Nouwen, in which he described how a famous trapeze artist (whose name I can't recall now) responded to the inquiry, "Why are you walking between two skyscrapers in New York City?" He shrugged and said, "When I see two buildings connected by a rope, I want to walk it."
Nouwen explained that the most profound answers are often the most puzzling, distilled into their simplest derivatives. He said that children do that naturally, of course: "Why are you playing with the ball right now?" The kid says, "I saw a ball, and I wanted to play."
I thought how adults tend to complicate everything, when really the truest reason for what we do and believe and say is often the most obvious.
When I see two buildings connect by a rope I want to walk it! When I see two images connected by an idea, I want to write it! 😊
YES!
This is great. The intimacy of moments so fleeting but with the impact to linger for decades. Have you read Eavan Boland’s “What We Lost”?
I haven’t! But I love her work.
This is a lovely memory. I was fortunate, doing a PhD in Irish Studies, that Seamus Heaney’s best friend was another Seamus (Deane), author of Reading in the Dark and criticism, and director of our program. We had time to spend with Seamus Heaney and he and his wife were very kind. Digging is one of the best poems - so many layers of history and memory.
Oh that’s incredible! How lovely!
Thank you for introducing me to this wonderful piece!
loneliness kind of gets in the way first…