Cultural therapy
Nothing beats the arts and culture as a rousing way to
escape from the routine and stresses of everyday living.
The choice is infinite. Treat yourself to a trip to the cinema or
theatre, maybe a live concert of music or dance, or pay a visit to an art
gallery or a museum.
But stop right there.
Literature deserves a special mention.
One of the most rewarding ways to relax is to immerse the mind in a good
book.
Not only does it sweep the reader away from normal preoccupations,
but the imagination will be stimulated and caressed by creative words that can in
turn excite, soothe and revive the spirit.
Just as music has the power to remind its alert listener
of a pleasant event or to transport her and him somewhere beyond the reach of
mundane experience, well-crafted literature will grab the attention in a
process of total absorption, nonpareil.
It will also appeal to the senses and appetites - inspiring thought and
possibly making the reader feel better.
Novels
For the most part the type of book that cocoons me is
fiction, involving crime, politics, lawyers, maybe even some incidental
trysting, and most importantly narrated in a real global setting.
Much as I enjoy non-fiction, such as travel writing and
journalistic reportage of actual events, nothing combats stress better than
being so enraptured by a story as to be barely able to wait to know what will happen
on the next page. Hours evaporate.
To be suspended on tenterhooks, at the same time as
learning from the author’s intellect and knowledge about a crucial situation
somewhere in the world mixes escapism with reality.
At first sight this proposition seems
paradoxical, but it is in fact quite a combination - in the hands of great
writers.
Exceptional playwrights and poets can achieve the same
effect.
Poet laureates
In one of life’s great perversions, the appeal of one
branch of literature has received a mighty boost. This comes as a result of the premature death
of the man who had been acknowledged as the greatest living poet writing in the English
language.
As Britain’s poet laureate
since 2009 Carol Ann Duffy expressed it,
Seamus
Heaney “became the poet whom other poets
measured themselves against. His
dazzling fame and glittering prizes did not blind him to his perception of
poetry as a vocation, a calling, and he never lost a craftsman’s sense of
humility in his relationship to his art...He is irreplaceable.”
Praise could hardly be more emphatic.
Ted Hughes was Britain’s poet laureate from 1984 until
his death in 1998.
Heaney and Hughes had
co-edited the popular anthologies The
Rattle Bag (1982) and The
School Bag (1997), among other projects.
Writing of the death of his great friend,
Heaney’s emotions were expressed with these visceral words:
“No death outside my
immediate family has left me feeling more bereft. No death in my lifetime has hurt poets
more...His creative powers were, as Shakespeare said, still crescent. By his death, the veil of poetry is rent and
the walls of learning broken.”
Curriculum vitae
To consider the man properly, allow me to summarise
Heaney’s literary career.
He was the author of over 20 volumes of poetry and
criticism, and edited several widely used anthologies.
His poetry books include
the following:
Death
of a Naturalist 1966, Door
into the Dark 1969, Wintering Out
1972, North 1975, Field Work 1979, Sweeney Astray: A Version from the
Irish 1984, Station Island 1984,
The Haw Lantern 1987, Seeing Things 1991, The Spirit Level 1996, Opened Ground: Selected Poems (1966-1996) 1998, Electric Light 2001, District and Circle 2006, and Human Chain 2010.
As a translator, Heaney’s
most famous work is the translation of the epic Anglo-Saxon poem Beowulf (2000).
He also translated the fifteenth century Scottish poet Robert Henryson’s Middle
Scots classic and follow-up to Chaucer, The
Testament of Cresseid and Seven Fables in 2009.
He translated Sophocles with two major works. One was a version of "Philoctetes," composing
the play The Cure at Troy. The other was The Burial at Thebes, a version of Sophocles’ Antigone. It was later turned into an opera by the West
Indian poet and Nobel laureate (1992). Walcott’s
opera based on Heaney’s play was performed at the Globe Theatre in London, and
attended by both Nobel literature laureates.
November 1962 marked the date of the first Heaney poem to
appear in print when the Belfast Telegraph published Tractors. The only other
example of early published work (of which I am aware) is a collection entitled Eleven Poems.
He also published nine works of prose including The
Fire i' the Flint: Reflections on the Poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins 1975, Preoccupations: Selected Prose, (1968-1978)
1980, The Redress of Poetry 1995, Finders Keepers: Selected Prose, (1971-2001) 2002.
I know not how he found the time, but he also had a
peripatetic academic career.
This was crowned by his appointment in 1984 to the
impressively entitled position of Boylston Professor of Rhetoric and Oratory at
Harvard University. He taught there
until 2006.
As if that was not enough, he
also served as the Oxford Professor of Poetry from 1989 to 1994.
He even had an incidental career in broadcasting.
He appeared and sometimes even presented
programmes on British and Irish TV and radio.
They are an important part of his legacy, not
least because of the mellifluous quality of his vocal delivery.
Moreover, these programmes continue to enrich
our lives as, for example, BBC Radio 4 features their recording of his reading
of Beowulf as their Book of the Week
during the first week of October 2013.
His TV and radio broadcasts illustrate his commanding
power in using English conversationally.
To pick a couple at random, these tell me a lot about the man:
“Poet is a large
word. To allow yourself to be called
poet is to consecrate yourself. Before I
was a probationer or a deacon.”
“Insouciance is the best
situation for writing lyric poetry.”
Listening to Heaney, his propensity to quote English
poets from memory impresses. I take it as a
sign of his admiration.
These include
Gerard Manly Hopkins, Keats, TS Elliot, WH Auden, Philip Larkin, Ted Hughes,
and William Wordsworth.
Accolades
If the extensive lists of books published and prestigious
posts in academia provide a quantitative impression of his career, his awards
are an emphatic indicator and proof of its quality.
Heaney’s literary career got off to a flying start when
his first collection, “Death of a
Naturalist,” was awarded the Somerset Maugham poetry prize in 1967. It also won some other prizes.
He won the Whitbread Book of the Year in 1996 for “The Spirit Level” and again in 1999 for
his translation of the Anglo-Saxon epic poem “Beowulf.” His volume “District
and Circle” (2006) won the T.S. Eliot Prize. This is the most prestigious poetry award in
the UK, according to the Poetry Foundation.
His prose likewise won prizes. His book “Finders
Keepers: Selected Prose, 1971-2001” (2002) earned the Truman Capote Award for Literary Criticism, the
largest annual prize for literary criticism in the English language.
The ultimate accolade, of course, was his receipt in 1995
of the Nobel Prize in Literature 'for
works of lyrical beauty and ethical depth, which exalt everyday miracles and
the living past.''
In addition to these book prizes and the Nobel prize, he
was awarded some notable honorariums.
For example, he was an honorary fellow of the Royal Society of
Literature,
as well as a commander of the French Order of Arts and Letters.
Tributes
The unequivocal praise heaped on the great poet in the
immediate aftermath of his passing articulates the national and international
esteem which Seamus Heaney earned through the mastery of his craft.
I present some examples.
President Bill Clinton, who had quoted the passage from
Heaney’s Cure at Troy on a visit to Belfast:
“More than a brilliant
artist, Seamus was a joy to be with and a warm and caring friend. His wonderful work, like that of fellow Irish
Nobel Prize winners Shaw, Yeats and Beckett, will be a lasting gift for all the
world.”
Roy Foster, professor of history at Oxford University:
“The distinctiveness of
his poetry was unmistakable: a Heaney poem carried its maker's mark on the
blade... Heaney's erudition was immense, and his lectures on literature at
Oxford, Harvard and worldwide made wonderful reading and unparalleled
listening. They illustrate his openness to world literature and classical
history as well as his deep love of unexpected English poets such as Clare and
Wordsworth...”
Liam Neeson, the Hollywood actor:
“Ireland, and Northern
Ireland especially, has lost a part of its artistic soul. He crafted, through his poetry, who we are
as a species and the living soil that we toiled in. He defined our place in the universe.”
Culture
It seems slightly discordant to discover that, despite
what Heaney did to promote English as the poetic language of our culture, there
seems to have been some reticence to join the international acclaim in his home
region.
A senior columnist in the
Belfast Telegraph commented:
“.... the reaction from within
unionism was muted. For all the
bleat and empty twaddle talked about a shared future, this was one occasion –
now missed forever – where we could have seen a really strong and emphatic
united response from the two big parties.
We could have seen a true demonstration of shared pride in this great
poet and the luminous, humane values that he stood for. So the
public face of Heaney's passing was a one-dimensionally green affair. Unlike the popular response, which was a
glorious rattle bag of colours, tributes from all kinds of unexpected people,
who had experienced the quiet power and honesty of Heaney's words.”
If this comment is accurate, I take comfort in the
opinion of Helen Vendler, Professor at Harvard University:
“Seamus Heaney is a poet
of Ireland, but of the whole world.”
Jenny McCartney, the Sunday Telegraph columnist, describing herself as from a "Protestant, unionist family outside Belfast" headlined an article in the Spectator (7 Sept 2013) that -
"Seamus Heaney's poems are for Protestants too."
She considers his poems including Whatever You Say, Say Nothing, Docker, Punishment, and The Strand at Lough Beg. She observes that -
"his 1995 Nobel lecture dealt profoundly with the stultifying effect of political violence."
The Times in London which produced a
fulsome 2-page obituary the day after his
death. It said:
“Post-Yeats but pre-Heaney, Ireland
was a middle-ranking poetic power. With Heaney, it dominated the
landscape...Heaney refused, to become a poster boy for the nationalist cause or
a Republican pamphleteer...”
The same paper’s editorial added:
“In the great literary
tradition of the island of Ireland, Heaney was distinctive. One reason was his immunity to the
quasi-mystical claims of national identity that have caused so much destruction
in modern times...While never allowing himself to be seen as political
spokesman for any side...Heaney was ever suspicious of the ideological certainties
promoted by partisans of all sides in Ireland’s conflict.”
Our culture is a source of pride.
Apart from Seamus Heaney and other poets such as Michael
Longley, Paul Muldoon and Sinead Morrissey, we have classical musicians of
international standing like James Galway and Barry Douglas, we have produced
great writers like Oscar Wilde and CS Lewis, and artists like William
Conor. We also have playwrights like
Brian Friel and a number of the world’s greatest actors of stage and screen.
The arts enrich our lives, they give us a cultured
reputation in the world and, coincidentally, they boost the earnings element of
our regional wealth.
Cultural tourism is
a valuable asset, as the creative arts enrich us in the other sense.
Personal reminiscences
The Times authoritative obituary referred at one point to
the influence of the Scottish Professor of English at Queens University
Belfast, John Braidwood, on Seamus Heaney.
The academic introduced his student to Anglo-Saxon and
Old Norse, according to the Times, “joining
him in a train of thought that linked the bogs of Denmark – the source for his
celebrated Tollund Man sequence of poems – and ultimately to Beowulf.”
This account resonated strongly with me as a result of a
chance encounter with the then Emeritus Professor in 1985. We had never met previously.
At breakfast on the morning after I made a
presentation about Omagh Arts Festival to the Arts Council Northern Ireland
annual conference, he noticed my name tag. Within a few minutes he had enthralled me with
a succinct appraisal of the origins in Old Norse of my surname.
He was also able to define its Scots Gaelic derivation,
as well as the anglicised versions. Some
weeks later, he posted me a photocopy of an academic article about the clan
name.
This confirmed beyond doubt his
earlier unrehearsed verbal account. It
also cemented the veracity of the Times’ glowing tribute to his former student.
I salute Seamus Heaney’s support for the work of the
community group, Bellaghy Development Association, to regenerate his home
village. In the course of that project,
when I was the town planner on the advisory team, I met him several times.
On one occasion, he was presenting the Department of the
Environment with original manuscripts of his work – as well as some personal
items.
The Department’s restoration of
the village’s most historic building Bellaghy Bawn, a castle constructed during
the Plantation of Ulster and an inspirational influence on him, received a
higher priority as a result of his support for the community group’s regeneration
strategy.
On other occasions he attended events in Bellaghy.
These included a village reception in 1996 to
celebrate his award of the Nobel prize, the launch in 1997 and the official
opening of the community group’s property project in 2000, and in April 2009
the unveiling of the Turfman sculpture adjacent to the Bawn.
 |
| Seamus Heaney is welcomed to the unveiling of the Turfman in Bellaghy on 2 April 2009 |
I am the fortunate possessor of two mementoes which bear
out anecdotes told by others about Seamus Heaney’s generosity and obliging
manner.
One is an autographed copy of Beowulf where he inscribes and quotes
his translation with the words
“To
Michael McSorley – “sure of his ground in
strongroom and bawn” – p.18 and in Bellaghy too – Seamus Heaney May 2000.”
The other takes pride of place in my study. It is a signed copy of his poem Digging. At the foot, he writes
“To
Michael, who dug in Bellaghy – and kept going – Seamus 17 June 1997.”
I attended Seamus Heaney’s funeral in Bellaghy on the hot
summer evening of 2 September 2013.
The
burial plot, beside his parents, sits next to an old stone wall, overlooked by
two sycamore trees and an ash tree.
Two
renowned and accomplished musicians, Liam O’Flynn on uileann pipes and Neil Martin on cello,
played appropriately haunting melodies.
As
an attentive journalist observed with prose bordering poetry, a swallow circled
and swooped overhead as the haunting tune lingered, a detail which would not
have been lost on the late poet.
The Parish Priest Fr Andrew Dolan (who was in my Latin
class at school) told mourners the poet who “never
really left Bellaghy” had come home.
He added that
“the
parish is honoured that Seamus Heaney chose to be buried here. The name Seamus Heaney and this place will
forever be entwined.”
Metaphors
In all the column inches and broadcast tributes
eulogising the man and his work, expert critics have described Seamus Heaney variously
as a nature poet, a love poet and as a war poet – life’s big themes, really.
To me, what impresses is his sheer word power, the subtlety
of his references, and linguistic tools he uses to describe his subjects. To echo my earlier observation, only the
great writers can combine the imaginary and real world.
As a contemporary poet, he proves adept when moving from
his trademark verses about the Ulster rural idyll to topics which preoccupy the
modern world, issues like sex and violence.
Heaney employs metaphors to sensory effect, as in the erotic imagining Skunk.
And in Anything Can Happen,
he adapts and ingeniously augments the Roman lyric poet Horace’s Ode 34 to
illustrate the horror of New York City’s 9/11 catastrophe.
I also detect that Seamus Heaney had a musical ear.
His use of onomatopoeia, never mind metaphor,
resounds when I read Digging.
It brings the subject to life when the poem
plants a strong sense of the boggy earth in my nostrils and I can clearly hear
the sounds of the turf spade:
“The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.”
©Michael
McSorley 2013
