Human Chain, By Seamus Heaney
Your support helps us to tell the story
From reproductive rights to climate change to Big Tech, The Independent is on the ground when the story is developing. Whether it's investigating the financials of Elon Musk's pro-Trump PAC or producing our latest documentary, 'The A Word', which shines a light on the American women fighting for reproductive rights, we know how important it is to parse out the facts from the messaging.
At such a critical moment in US history, we need reporters on the ground. Your donation allows us to keep sending journalists to speak to both sides of the story.
The Independent is trusted by Americans across the entire political spectrum. And unlike many other quality news outlets, we choose not to lock Americans out of our reporting and analysis with paywalls. We believe quality journalism should be available to everyone, paid for by those who can afford it.
Your support makes all the difference.Fans of Seamus Heaney will find plenty to admire in this, his 12th collection of poetry. There are the usual precise observations of the natural world: "The glum grey pocks/ White dandelion milk/ Would mark your skin with as it dried." The childhood memories, present and active in the man: "Ghost-footing what was then the terra firma/ Of hallway linoleum, grandfather now appears..."
Perhaps the best poem is "A Herbal", a homage to Guillevic's "Herbier de Bretagne", in which Heaney meditates on the varieties of plants growing in graveyards – grasses, nettles, bracken, broom, blackberries – and their significances. "If you know a bit/ About the universe/ It's because you've taken it in/ Like that/ Looked as hard/ As you look into yourself/ Into the rat hole/ Through the vetch and dock that mantled it."
There is the lightly worn erudition: "Route 110" maps the arc of a life on to the underworld section of Virgil's Aeneid; "Hermit Songs" revisits the heroes of Gaelic legend. There are the tender, reverent memories of family: "Album" is a meditation on old photos of his parents, seeing them anew through an adult's eye. The poetic voice is quiet and contemplative – perhaps a bit lacking in fireworks. But that is what admirers of Heaney love.
Join our commenting forum
Join thought-provoking conversations, follow other Independent readers and see their replies
Comments