So here I am at the end of Seamus Heaney’s major collections. I came via the sideways path, the one that starts with his Nobel lecture, which is brilliant, and has repaid many re-readings. It took me through Finders Keepers a collection of his prose, and then through his Beowulf. I no longer remember just why I picked up Stepping Stones, a collection of interviews of Heaney conducted over several years by Dennis O’Driscoll, a fellow Irish poet. After reading that collection, listening to the two of them talk about life and poetry for several hundred pages, I decided it was time to go and find the poems. And so I have. Following the Frumious advice, I began at the beginning and now I have come, more or less, to the end. Human Chain is the last collection of poems published in his lifetime. I may go back and pick up some of his translations — Sweeney Astray piqued my interest, and somewhere I think I still have my copy of his translation of Jan Kochanowski’s Laments — or maybe the collections that he edited together with Ted Hughes. But for major collections, it’s re-reading from now on. The poems will have to come back to me as if new.
Human Chain seems to me to have more longish poems, or at least longish for Heaney, than most of his other collections. “Eelworks” offers six sections, short though each might be, while two poems later “A Herbal” has fifteen unnumbered parts across nine pages. “Route 110” makes its journey across twelve twelve-line sections, and there are nine “Hermit Songs” dedicated to Helen Vendler, a colleague of Heaney’s during his Harvard years. He is giving himself room, loosening up the concision that marks so much of his other work. The poems in this collection also seemed to me to have more than Heaney’s usual amount of non-English words and phrases dropped into the ordinary run of the lines, as if, as he neared the line between life and death, the borders among this world’s languages became more porous, his thoughts ran as naturally through one as through another and he wanted his readers to experience this unity as he did.
His eye for longer views by no means keeps him from appreciating, and sharing, more fleeting moments as in the poem that opens the collection:
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