The Perfect Guest



There have been many wonderful guests in the Library in the long life of this institution.  It is hard to imagine that any visit will surpass the pleasure of Seamus Heaney’s.  He was a man without airs.  An Irishwoman we know said that Northern Irish people were foreigners, but in our view Mr. Heaney, an Ulsterman, was the quintessence of all that is remarkable and fine in Irish literature and that he was no stranger anywhere English is spoken.

Go read some poetry.

-Nemo Wolfe

Published in: on August 30, 2013 at 10:09 am  Comments (3)  

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3 CommentsLeave a comment

  1. The Forge
    by Seamus Heaney

    All I know is a door into the dark.
    Outside, old axles and iron hoops rusting;
    Inside, the hammered anvil’s short-pitched ring,
    The unpredictable fantail of sparks
    Or hiss when a new shoe toughens in water.
    The anvil must be somewhere in the centre,
    Horned as a unicorn, at one end and square,
    Set there immoveable: an altar
    Where he expends himself in shape and music.
    Sometimes, leather-aproned, hairs in his nose,
    He leans out on the jamb, recalls a clatter
    Of hoofs where traffic is flashing in rows;
    Then grunts and goes in, with a slam and flick
    To beat real iron out, to work the bellows.


  2. Reblogged this on white pebble and commented:
    We all miss him!

  3. His little story about being in his house with his mother on a Sunday as Catholics walked by on their way to Mass has stayed with me and stayed with me. It’s a good thing to be in the thrall of a great poet.

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