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North : Poems
North : Poems by Seamus Heaney. Faber Faber, Inc.,1975
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First published January 1, 1975
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About the author
Seamus Heaney
343books1,037followersWorks of Irish poet Seamus Justin Heaney reflect landscape, culture, and political crises of his homeland and include the collections
Wintering Out
(1972) and
Field Work
(1979) as well as a translation of
Beowulf
(1999). He won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1995.
This writer and lecturer won this prize "for works of lyrical beauty and ethical depth, which exalt everyday miracles and the living past."
.
This writer and lecturer won this prize "for works of lyrical beauty and ethical depth, which exalt everyday miracles and the living past."
.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 192 reviews
January 12, 2019
«The King in the North!»
Dopo due poesie di dedica, il libro è diviso in due parti.
Nella prima dominano le famose boglands di Heaney:
«Pantano, palude, acquitrino: | i regni melmosi | possedimenti dei sangue-freddo», con frequente sovrapposizione tra paesaggio e corpo umano (femminile ma non solo).
La prima lettura non è facile, per la scelta dei termini e delle immagini. E tutto sommato anche le poesie più celebrate non mi catturano quanto alcune del precedente Door into the Dark.
Nella Part II, dai terreni paludosi da cui riemergono violenze del passato (vichingo, ad esempio), si passa alle violenze presenti; scontri di fazioni e odio dell’Irlanda del Nord contemporanea: «all around us […] the ministry of fear».
Ecco un tentativo di comprensione (tramite traduzione) della poesia che dà il titolo al tutto:
[commenti, correzioni e suggerimenti sono benvenuti]
Nord
Sono tornato a una lunga spiaggia,
il ferro di cavallo martellato di una baia,
e ho trovato soltanto i profani
poteri del tonante Atlantico.
Ho fronteggiato i non incantati
inviti dell’Islanda,
le colonie patetiche
della Groenlandia, e all’improvviso
quei leggendari razziatori,
quelli che giacciono nelle Orcadi e a Dublino
messi a confronto
con le loro spade lunghe che arrugginiscono,
quelli nelle dure
pance delle navi di pietra,*
quelli fatti a pezzi e scintillanti
nella ghiaia di ruscelli disgelati
erano voci assordate dall’oceano
che mi avvertivano, di nuovo sollevate
in violenza e rivelazione.
La lingua fluttuante della nave vichinga
galleggiava col senno di poi �
diceva che il martello di Thor era brandito
verso la geografia e il commercio,
gli accoppiamenti stupidi e le vendette,
gli odi e gli intrighi
delle assemblee generali, le bugie e le donne,
gli sfinimenti chiamati pace,
la memoria che cova il sangue versato.
Ha detto: «Stenditi
nella scorta di parole, scava un cunicolo
nelle spire e nel luccichio
del tuo cervello solcato di rughe.
Componi nel buio.
Aspetta l’aurora boreale
nella lunga incursione
ma nessuna cascata di luce.
Mantieni il tuo occhio chiaro
come la bolla d’aria del ghiacciolo,
fidati della percezione di qualsiasi tesoro sporgente
le tue mani abbiano conosciuto.»
*Le navi di pietra devono essere sepolture tipo questa:
Dopo due poesie di dedica, il libro è diviso in due parti.
Nella prima dominano le famose boglands di Heaney:
«Pantano, palude, acquitrino: | i regni melmosi | possedimenti dei sangue-freddo», con frequente sovrapposizione tra paesaggio e corpo umano (femminile ma non solo).
La prima lettura non è facile, per la scelta dei termini e delle immagini. E tutto sommato anche le poesie più celebrate non mi catturano quanto alcune del precedente Door into the Dark.
Nella Part II, dai terreni paludosi da cui riemergono violenze del passato (vichingo, ad esempio), si passa alle violenze presenti; scontri di fazioni e odio dell’Irlanda del Nord contemporanea: «all around us […] the ministry of fear».
Ecco un tentativo di comprensione (tramite traduzione) della poesia che dà il titolo al tutto:
[commenti, correzioni e suggerimenti sono benvenuti]
Nord
Sono tornato a una lunga spiaggia,
il ferro di cavallo martellato di una baia,
e ho trovato soltanto i profani
poteri del tonante Atlantico.
Ho fronteggiato i non incantati
inviti dell’Islanda,
le colonie patetiche
della Groenlandia, e all’improvviso
quei leggendari razziatori,
quelli che giacciono nelle Orcadi e a Dublino
messi a confronto
con le loro spade lunghe che arrugginiscono,
quelli nelle dure
pance delle navi di pietra,*
quelli fatti a pezzi e scintillanti
nella ghiaia di ruscelli disgelati
erano voci assordate dall’oceano
che mi avvertivano, di nuovo sollevate
in violenza e rivelazione.
La lingua fluttuante della nave vichinga
galleggiava col senno di poi �
diceva che il martello di Thor era brandito
verso la geografia e il commercio,
gli accoppiamenti stupidi e le vendette,
gli odi e gli intrighi
delle assemblee generali, le bugie e le donne,
gli sfinimenti chiamati pace,
la memoria che cova il sangue versato.
Ha detto: «Stenditi
nella scorta di parole, scava un cunicolo
nelle spire e nel luccichio
del tuo cervello solcato di rughe.
Componi nel buio.
Aspetta l’aurora boreale
nella lunga incursione
ma nessuna cascata di luce.
Mantieni il tuo occhio chiaro
come la bolla d’aria del ghiacciolo,
fidati della percezione di qualsiasi tesoro sporgente
le tue mani abbiano conosciuto.»
*Le navi di pietra devono essere sepolture tipo questa:
December 20, 2017
Seamus Heaney's North found a myth which allowed him to articulate his vision of Ireland. The experience is refracted through images drawn from different parts of the Northern European experience. North takes him from the simpler country poems to him Putting Northern Irish politics inside the framework with a darker world where he confronts the violence and ends up in exile just outside Dublin. The poet, becomes far more ambitious in scope with this collection, maybe the most diverse. There is a strategy of violence being followed in the early 1970s (when this volume was written), which clearly had a big impact on Heaney. There is also a celebration of Gunnar, the Icelandic hero, who "lay beautiful inside his burial mound...and unavenged" (in 'Funeral Rites') was a brave response to the assassins on the Catholic side. So it is no real surprise to find him in exile, and referring to Ovid's banishment, in the last poem of this book. With many poems I felt that Heaney was swimming into new, difficult waters with a bit more passionate trust put into his words. Not always easy to digest, but a very good elegant and powerful collection indeed.
February 3, 2017
"Exhaustions nominated peace,
Memory incubating the spilled blood."
Not really my cup of tea, but then again, that's probably because I didn't exactly understand the poems. (In addition, it was a university read, and I generally dislike books or poetry I am forced to study instead of read for pleasure.)
Memory incubating the spilled blood."
Not really my cup of tea, but then again, that's probably because I didn't exactly understand the poems. (In addition, it was a university read, and I generally dislike books or poetry I am forced to study instead of read for pleasure.)
January 28, 2016
While I have dipped into Seamus Heaney's work (in Seeing Things), this is the first time I've read a book of his poems. North's collection is in two parts - the first, a broad view of history and contemplation of the Irish bogs, and the various northern invaders (i.e. Vikings) that came to them seeking to do violence. The second part focuses on the sectarian violence in Northern Ireland, and the aftermath of having loved ones killed in the conflict, as well as living in fear from further attacks.
For me, North proved a very deep read. I started out reading commentaries on the poems, which explained the references Heaney was making, thinking "there's no way I'd know all this". But a subsequent conversation with a good friend dropped the study and started the quest for my own meaning of the poems. That said, I found Part I much more opaque than Part II, but I think the poems benefit from re-reading and contemplation.
For me, North proved a very deep read. I started out reading commentaries on the poems, which explained the references Heaney was making, thinking "there's no way I'd know all this". But a subsequent conversation with a good friend dropped the study and started the quest for my own meaning of the poems. That said, I found Part I much more opaque than Part II, but I think the poems benefit from re-reading and contemplation.
August 15, 2020
An excellent collection of poetry that explores how violence can echo through history. I found it a little abstruse at times but that might well have been because my broken thinker was being a little obtuse.
Hercules and Antaeus
Sky-born and royal,
snake-choker, dung-heaver,
his mind big with golden apples,
his future hung with trophies,
Hercules has the measure
of resistance and black powers
feeding off the territory.
Antaeus, the mould-hugger,
is weaned at last:
a fall was a renewal
but now he is raised up-
the challenger’s intelligence
is a spur of light,
a blue prong graiping him
out of his element
into a dream of loss
and origins - the cradling dark,
the river-veins, the secret gullies
of his strength,
the hatching grounds
of cave and souterrain,
he has bequeathed it all
to elegists. Balor will die
and Byrthnoth and Sitting Bull.
Hercules lifts his arms
in a remorseless V,
his triumph unassailed
by the powers he has shaken,
and lifts and banks Antaeus
high as a profiled ridge,
a sleeping giant,
pap for the dispossessed.
Hercules and Antaeus
Sky-born and royal,
snake-choker, dung-heaver,
his mind big with golden apples,
his future hung with trophies,
Hercules has the measure
of resistance and black powers
feeding off the territory.
Antaeus, the mould-hugger,
is weaned at last:
a fall was a renewal
but now he is raised up-
the challenger’s intelligence
is a spur of light,
a blue prong graiping him
out of his element
into a dream of loss
and origins - the cradling dark,
the river-veins, the secret gullies
of his strength,
the hatching grounds
of cave and souterrain,
he has bequeathed it all
to elegists. Balor will die
and Byrthnoth and Sitting Bull.
Hercules lifts his arms
in a remorseless V,
his triumph unassailed
by the powers he has shaken,
and lifts and banks Antaeus
high as a profiled ridge,
a sleeping giant,
pap for the dispossessed.
June 15, 2021
if i am ever forced to read a seamus heaney poem again i will riot and also i will not read it. and i will burn the poem
August 7, 2021
‘North� was divided into two sections: Part I containing poems about death and the Irish bog, and Part II relating to the Irish ‘Troubles�. From the second section
> “Whatever You Say, Say Nothing�
I
I'm writing just after an encounter
With an English journalist in search of 'views
On the Irish thing'. I'm back in winter
Quarters where bad news is no longer news,
Where media-men and stringers sniff and point,
Where zoom lenses, recorders and coiled leads
Litter the hotels. The times are out of joint
But I incline as much to rosary beads
As to the jottings and analyses
Of politicians and newspapermen
Who've scribbled down the long campaign from gas
And protest to gelignite and Sten,
Who proved upon their pulses 'escalate',
'Backlash' and 'crack down', 'the provisional wing',
'Polarization' and 'long-standing hate'.
Yet I live here, I live here too, I sing,
Expertly civil-tongued with civil neighbours
On the high wires of first wireless reports,
Sucking the fake taste, the stony flavours
Of those sanctioned, old, elaborate retorts:
'Oh, it's disgraceful, surely, I agree.'
'Where's it going to end?' 'It's getting worse.'
'They're murderers.' 'Internment, understandably ...'
The 'voice of sanity' is getting hoarse.
…I
"Religion's never mentioned here", of course.
"You know them by their eyes," and hold your tongue.
"One side's as bad as the other," never worse.
Christ, it's near time that some small leak was sprung
In the great dykes the Dutchman made
To dam the dangerous tide that followed Seamus.
Yet for all this art and sedentary trade
I am incapable. The famous
Northern reticence, the tight gag of place
And times: yes, yes. Of the "wee six" I sing
Where to be saved you only must save face
And whatever you say, you say nothing.
Smoke-signals are loud-mouthed compared with us:
Manoeuvrings to find out name and school,
Subtle discrimination by addresses
With hardly an exception to the rule
That Norman, Ken and Sidney signalled Prod
And Seamus (call me Sean) was sure-fire Pape.
O land of password, handgrip, wink and nod,
Of open minds as open as a trap,
Where tongues lie coiled, as under flames lie wicks,
Where half of us, as in a wooden horse
Were cabin'd and confined like wily Greeks,
Besieged within the siege, whispering morse.
�
October 20, 2017
Konuşarak kaba Devon şivesiyle,
Yasladı Ralegh kızı bir ağaca
Yaslanır gibi İrlanda İngiltere'ye
Ve ilerledi iç kısımlara
Ta ki nefessiz kalana dek tüm kıyıları:
'Sevimlisör, Sörwalter! Sevimlisör, Sörwalter!'
Su o, okyanus o, kaldıran
Onun iç eteğini, kalkışı gibi bir yosun örtüsünün
Bir dalganın önünde.
(Okyanusun İrlanda'ya Aşkı, I)
Yasladı Ralegh kızı bir ağaca
Yaslanır gibi İrlanda İngiltere'ye
Ve ilerledi iç kısımlara
Ta ki nefessiz kalana dek tüm kıyıları:
'Sevimlisör, Sörwalter! Sevimlisör, Sörwalter!'
Su o, okyanus o, kaldıran
Onun iç eteğini, kalkışı gibi bir yosun örtüsünün
Bir dalganın önünde.
(Okyanusun İrlanda'ya Aşkı, I)
April 28, 2021
Heaney's fourth collection explores Ireland as a place of conflict: the ongoing conflict in Northern Ireland compared with the multiple invasions of Ireland over the centuries, by Normans, Vikings, and others. This collection also includes Heaney's famous poems about the bodies preserved in bogs: "The Bog Queen", "The Grauballe Man", "Punishment", and "Strange Fruit", among others. These are rightly remembered: the strongest pieces in the collection, they capture the timeless presence of the bog bodies and the history of conflict, cultures, and love, which they hold. Heaney's imagery in these is rich, imaginative, and absolutely fresh. In the first half of the collection, poems explores Ireland's history, perceiving Ireland as a tender, feminine presence, which is being plundered by outside forces. There's something troubling about Heaney's view of Ireland as a sexualised, female entity. The second half focuses directly on Belfast and Derry in the 1970s, as well as delving into Heaney's personal history. These poems have less depth and nuance than the earlier pieces, but have an immediacy and a weight of emotion. The poems in this collection, often in quatrains, both rhyming and unrhyming, give that sense, as the best poetry does, that Heaney is expressing a unique thought and in the only possible language to do so. This is an uneven collection, but full of energy, and demonstrates the brilliance of Heaney's imagery as well as his deftness and memorability as a poet.
January 10, 2013
Published in 1975, this is an impressionistic portrait of an Ireland as remote from us today as if Heaney were talking about the time of St Patrick. His depiction of a land “shackled in rosary beads� tells of long ago, when the clergy held sway, before the rise and fall of the Celtic tiger, with its fantasy economics, easy credit, and the covering of that damp land in houses, many of which remain unfinished.
The dour poems in the first part show us rural Ireland and the winteriness of its “unrelenting soil�, its many, many, old bones: a land of ritual and drudgery. Its inhabitants are so close to the earth that they are symbolised by bog people, who merge with it. This Ireland is not green, but grey.
These poems are accomplished, if not always accessible, but the tone is monotonous. Heaney sounds like a man who, sitting in his Dublin study, is happier mythologizing a hard rural existence, one of tediousness punctuated by occasional violence, than living it. To be fair he does get out of Ireland on occasion. In one poem he finds himself in Devon, looking at a dead mole. He is not a naturally cheerful man, one suspects.
The title poem is about pillaging Vikings, and you get the impression that Heaney has a long memory that holds its grudges tight. Puzzling is a reference to Frank Sinatra in a poem about the Vikings, but it may be a reference to the emigration from Ireland to America over the centuries:
Come fly with me,
come sniff the wind
with the expertise
of the Vikings �
The major theme, other than the Irish landscape and Greek myths (and the Vikings), is England, and the shorter, more personal, second part of the book appears to address the turmoil in Northern Ireland which, in 1975, seemed as if it would never end. Even here, however, while the poems seem clearer than in the first part, ably rehearsing old resentments, they are still oblique comments on the wider situation. Heaney made his views clear by moving to the Republic in 1972; one might wish for similar forthrightness in his writing rather than the chippiness present here.
An exception to the miserabilist slant of the collection is the first poem, which recalls his childhood in Northern Ireland. Tellingly called ‘Sunlight�, it talks of baking, and has the magical lines
and the sun stood
like a griddle cooling
against the wall
of each long afternoon.
Unfortunately by the time you reach the end of this short book, such an elegiac and affectionate image is submerged under the relentless drabness, and you wonder why Heaney stopped at Dublin, and didn’t just move to New York and have done with it.
The dour poems in the first part show us rural Ireland and the winteriness of its “unrelenting soil�, its many, many, old bones: a land of ritual and drudgery. Its inhabitants are so close to the earth that they are symbolised by bog people, who merge with it. This Ireland is not green, but grey.
These poems are accomplished, if not always accessible, but the tone is monotonous. Heaney sounds like a man who, sitting in his Dublin study, is happier mythologizing a hard rural existence, one of tediousness punctuated by occasional violence, than living it. To be fair he does get out of Ireland on occasion. In one poem he finds himself in Devon, looking at a dead mole. He is not a naturally cheerful man, one suspects.
The title poem is about pillaging Vikings, and you get the impression that Heaney has a long memory that holds its grudges tight. Puzzling is a reference to Frank Sinatra in a poem about the Vikings, but it may be a reference to the emigration from Ireland to America over the centuries:
Come fly with me,
come sniff the wind
with the expertise
of the Vikings �
The major theme, other than the Irish landscape and Greek myths (and the Vikings), is England, and the shorter, more personal, second part of the book appears to address the turmoil in Northern Ireland which, in 1975, seemed as if it would never end. Even here, however, while the poems seem clearer than in the first part, ably rehearsing old resentments, they are still oblique comments on the wider situation. Heaney made his views clear by moving to the Republic in 1972; one might wish for similar forthrightness in his writing rather than the chippiness present here.
An exception to the miserabilist slant of the collection is the first poem, which recalls his childhood in Northern Ireland. Tellingly called ‘Sunlight�, it talks of baking, and has the magical lines
and the sun stood
like a griddle cooling
against the wall
of each long afternoon.
Unfortunately by the time you reach the end of this short book, such an elegiac and affectionate image is submerged under the relentless drabness, and you wonder why Heaney stopped at Dublin, and didn’t just move to New York and have done with it.
September 21, 2015
Published in 1975 by the winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1995, "for works of lyrical beauty and ethical depth, which exalt everyday miracles and the living past." I had read Death of the Naturalist, which is amazing, and then at some point read the Selected works� but not until recently did I read this, which I found at a used book sale. This book is also great, both lyrical and contemplative and also violent, focusing as it does on the Troubles, the violence in Northern Ireland, which was abroil then more than now.
In the poems he's looking at the roots of the troubles in Scandinavian and British invasions of Ireland. It's an archaeology of violence, where the detritus to sift through is on the one hand fossils they were finding, evidence of Norsemen on the land, and also language itself, which is hard to read, contradictory, a shadowy and ethereal palimpsest of the past, Memory, history. But it's also about Heaney becoming a poet, using words to explore the truth, instead of a soldier, using guns to settle issues. It's a pretty amazing achievement, articulating a vision of Ireland--its people, history, landscape.
Here's one:
North
Seamus Heaney
I returned to a long strand,
the hammered curve of a bay,
and found only the secular
powers of the Atlantic thundering.
I faced the unmagical
invitations of Iceland,
the pathetic colonies
of Greenland, and suddenly
those fabulous raiders,
those lying in Orkney and Dublin
measured against
their long swords rusting,
those in the solid
belly of stone ships,
those hacked and glinting
in the gravel of thawed streams
were ocean-deafened voices
warning me, lifted again
in violence and epiphany.
The longship’s swimming tongue
was buoyant with hindsight�
it said Thor’s hammer swung
to geography and trade,
thick-witted couplings and revenges,
the hatreds and behind-backs
of the althing, lies and women,
exhaustions nominated peace,
memory incubating the spilled blood.
It said, ‘Lie down
in the word-hoard, burrow
the coil and gleam
of your furrowed brain.
Compose in darkness.
Expect aurora borealis
in the long foray
but no cascade of light.
Keep your eye clear
as the bleb of the icicle,
trust the feel of what nubbed treasure
your hands have known.�
In the poems he's looking at the roots of the troubles in Scandinavian and British invasions of Ireland. It's an archaeology of violence, where the detritus to sift through is on the one hand fossils they were finding, evidence of Norsemen on the land, and also language itself, which is hard to read, contradictory, a shadowy and ethereal palimpsest of the past, Memory, history. But it's also about Heaney becoming a poet, using words to explore the truth, instead of a soldier, using guns to settle issues. It's a pretty amazing achievement, articulating a vision of Ireland--its people, history, landscape.
Here's one:
North
Seamus Heaney
I returned to a long strand,
the hammered curve of a bay,
and found only the secular
powers of the Atlantic thundering.
I faced the unmagical
invitations of Iceland,
the pathetic colonies
of Greenland, and suddenly
those fabulous raiders,
those lying in Orkney and Dublin
measured against
their long swords rusting,
those in the solid
belly of stone ships,
those hacked and glinting
in the gravel of thawed streams
were ocean-deafened voices
warning me, lifted again
in violence and epiphany.
The longship’s swimming tongue
was buoyant with hindsight�
it said Thor’s hammer swung
to geography and trade,
thick-witted couplings and revenges,
the hatreds and behind-backs
of the althing, lies and women,
exhaustions nominated peace,
memory incubating the spilled blood.
It said, ‘Lie down
in the word-hoard, burrow
the coil and gleam
of your furrowed brain.
Compose in darkness.
Expect aurora borealis
in the long foray
but no cascade of light.
Keep your eye clear
as the bleb of the icicle,
trust the feel of what nubbed treasure
your hands have known.�
January 27, 2015
whew, this was a very interesting read! Heaney is very vague and silent in his poetry, but at the same time I feel like he's yelling at me. It's interesting how many different way you can read these poems, though they all relates to the Irish revolutionary period and the Irish civil war, which is not always that easy to see, and I like that. Vague poetry is the best, because it means that you can interpret it your own way, without feeling forced into a certain way of thinking.
There was some of the poems I liked less than others, but overall this was an extremely good read. When I put it down I felt the same sort of "enlightenment" that I felt when I finished The Catcher in the Rye, which is the absolute best feeling you can get when you have finished a book (well, that and crying ;) ).
So if you have an interest in Ireland or Celtic culture, or just poetry, I would highly recommend picking this up.
There was some of the poems I liked less than others, but overall this was an extremely good read. When I put it down I felt the same sort of "enlightenment" that I felt when I finished The Catcher in the Rye, which is the absolute best feeling you can get when you have finished a book (well, that and crying ;) ).
So if you have an interest in Ireland or Celtic culture, or just poetry, I would highly recommend picking this up.
November 24, 2008
My favorite part of this book is the relationship between first part and second part. the imagistic portrayal of the country versus the personal narrative poems. I draw a thesis in the space between these two. If Ireland has had so many different masters, or tormenters, then how is one to settle on any identity. That conflicted sense of identity, which I read with such pleasure in Derek Walcott's poems, is definitely evident here.
April 15, 2021
I’m really excited to learn more about the context of these poems at uni because I think I’ll get even more out of them when I do! Nonetheless, even with my extensive lack of knowledge of Heaney’s historical and cultural reference, the tone of Heaney’s poetics are insistently resonant and I love them - I’ve never read anyone else who is able to so masterfully put such explosive pressure behind words and phrases
Read
August 10, 2022
"Ölümden önce hayat var mı?"
(s.94) sorusu ve bir sabah üzerinde çiylerle bulduğu köstebekle ilgili şiirin dizeleri gerçekten etkileyici.
October 19, 2017
Seamus Heaney is an award-winning poet born in Northern Ireland. He was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1995 and received numerous other accolades throughout his career. He was raised as a Catholic on a farm and was the oldest of nine children.
North is a collection of poetry that is divided into two parts. The title is a reference to his home in the north of Ireland, his inspiration for this work.
Part 1 centers around the history of Northern Ireland, particularly the little-known history of the bog people. The bog preserved the bodies of it’s victims for hundreds of years. People considered to be criminals during the Viking age would be killed and cast into the bog’s watery grave, not even given the honor of a burial place. Heaney uses his knowledge of the bodies of these victims and the research that has been done about them to create stories about these people and bring them to life. One poem that does this is “Punishment�. A body was found and believed to be a young girl. He tells a story of adultery and shame for this girl whom is likely falsely accused and mistreated. “Little adulteress,/before they punished you/you were flaxen-haired,/undernourished, and your/tar-black face was beautiful�. Heaney also gives commentary on the way that these people are exploited for their pain by people today, even by him: “I am the artful voyeur/of your brain’s exposed/and darkened combs�. He fills this first part full of the history of the Irish landscape and the people who inhabited it.
Part 2 pays particular attention to the political conflict that is constantly prevalent in Northern Ireland between the Protestant and Catholic communities. The Catholics want to secede from the United Kingdom and become assimilated into the Republic of Ireland, whereas the Protestants wish to remain within the U.K.; and this issue manifests itself through the constant presence of guerilla warfare within the communities. These titles of Protestant and Catholic have become a cultural label of the people’s political views more than a religious association.
“Whatever You Say Say Nothing� is the main poem that discusses this conflict. Heaney begins this poem with “I’m writing this just after an encounter/With an English journalist in search of ‘views/On the Irish Thing�.� implying that this civil war of sorts has been going on for such an extended period of time that it has become a piece of Irish culture. Heaney implies that it has morphed into just that, “The gelignite’s a common sound effect�. Heaney truly shows how it is to live amidst this conflict that it has become almost old enough for people to forget what they are fighting about. They are as the Capulets and Montagues in fair Verona. The title of this poem is a line from the poem and implies that to save yourself socially you must not let others know which side you associate with, “Where to be saved you only must save face/And whatever you say, you say nothing.� because you have no idea what enemies you might be making otherwise. Heaney uses Part 2 to emphasize the difficulty of living within these circumstances and how it can affect the people socially and politically.
In short, North is a beautifully fascinating read, particularly for anyone interested in learning more about the history and culture of Northern Ireland. Heaney does a beautiful job of arranging words in a way that makes the stories flow like music into the reader’s imaginations.
North is a collection of poetry that is divided into two parts. The title is a reference to his home in the north of Ireland, his inspiration for this work.
Part 1 centers around the history of Northern Ireland, particularly the little-known history of the bog people. The bog preserved the bodies of it’s victims for hundreds of years. People considered to be criminals during the Viking age would be killed and cast into the bog’s watery grave, not even given the honor of a burial place. Heaney uses his knowledge of the bodies of these victims and the research that has been done about them to create stories about these people and bring them to life. One poem that does this is “Punishment�. A body was found and believed to be a young girl. He tells a story of adultery and shame for this girl whom is likely falsely accused and mistreated. “Little adulteress,/before they punished you/you were flaxen-haired,/undernourished, and your/tar-black face was beautiful�. Heaney also gives commentary on the way that these people are exploited for their pain by people today, even by him: “I am the artful voyeur/of your brain’s exposed/and darkened combs�. He fills this first part full of the history of the Irish landscape and the people who inhabited it.
Part 2 pays particular attention to the political conflict that is constantly prevalent in Northern Ireland between the Protestant and Catholic communities. The Catholics want to secede from the United Kingdom and become assimilated into the Republic of Ireland, whereas the Protestants wish to remain within the U.K.; and this issue manifests itself through the constant presence of guerilla warfare within the communities. These titles of Protestant and Catholic have become a cultural label of the people’s political views more than a religious association.
“Whatever You Say Say Nothing� is the main poem that discusses this conflict. Heaney begins this poem with “I’m writing this just after an encounter/With an English journalist in search of ‘views/On the Irish Thing�.� implying that this civil war of sorts has been going on for such an extended period of time that it has become a piece of Irish culture. Heaney implies that it has morphed into just that, “The gelignite’s a common sound effect�. Heaney truly shows how it is to live amidst this conflict that it has become almost old enough for people to forget what they are fighting about. They are as the Capulets and Montagues in fair Verona. The title of this poem is a line from the poem and implies that to save yourself socially you must not let others know which side you associate with, “Where to be saved you only must save face/And whatever you say, you say nothing.� because you have no idea what enemies you might be making otherwise. Heaney uses Part 2 to emphasize the difficulty of living within these circumstances and how it can affect the people socially and politically.
In short, North is a beautifully fascinating read, particularly for anyone interested in learning more about the history and culture of Northern Ireland. Heaney does a beautiful job of arranging words in a way that makes the stories flow like music into the reader’s imaginations.
January 15, 2018
Eccole qui le ossa, biancheggianti,
e il senso ischeletrito
della vita: e della storia
e tutta la sua corte
di omicidi e cateteri, stampelle.
Così Pusterla in Bocksten; Heaney, che scrive North nel '75, ugualmente è affascinato da queste bog people, dal mondo arcaico e violento delle età dei metalli. Sono molti e molto belli i testi dedicati a questi uomini e queste donne di catrame, vittime tutte e tutte ancora in grado di parlare.
Le cronache nascoste nella torba sono imparentate con il presente, e il luogo è ormai ben radicato nell'immaginazione del poeta. Ecco infatti la seconda strofa di Kinship (Parentele, incerta traduzione mia):
Pantano, palude, acquitrino,
i regni di melma,
domini dei sangue-freddo,
di blocchi fangosi e uova sporcate.
Ma bog
vuol dire soffice,
cade la pioggia senza vento,
pupilla d'ambra.
Terra ruminante,
digestione di molluschi
e baccelli di semi,
profondi scarti di polline.
Dispensa della terra, cripta di ossa,
argine del sole, imbalsamatrice
di beni votivi
e fuggitivi falciati.
Sposa insaziabile.
Mangiatrice di spade,
bara, tumulo,
banco di ghiaccio della storia.
Terra che si spoglierà
del suo lato oscuro,
terra di nidi,
entroterra della mia mente.
[...]
E se la sua poesia più famosa è Digging, che è anche il suo antico manifesto, di nuovo Heaney scava (le piccole vanghe con cui dalla torba si fanno mattoncini compaiono spesso qua e là, fino a diventare monumento, obelisco piantato nel terreno) per riscoprire quanto vi stia sopra. La seconda parte della raccolta cambia radicalmente, e dalle violenze vichinghe si passa alle violenze settarie; il discorso si allunga e si abbassa, il privato del poeta prende molto più spazio. Fuori dal buio limaccioso della torba l'aria "is pounding like a stethoscope" per i tamburi orangisti, che scandiscono il ritmo del Ministero della paura in cui il poeta vive. Heaney si interroga qui sul suo ruolo, sulla sua assoluta ma sofferta distanza dai ringhi e dalle rivendicazioni nazionalistiche; è compassionevole, più che neutrale.
Così in Freedman:
[...]
Then poetry arrived in that city -
I would abjure all cant and self-pity -
And poetry wiped my brow and sped me.
Now they will say I bite the hand that fed me.
e il senso ischeletrito
della vita: e della storia
e tutta la sua corte
di omicidi e cateteri, stampelle.
Così Pusterla in Bocksten; Heaney, che scrive North nel '75, ugualmente è affascinato da queste bog people, dal mondo arcaico e violento delle età dei metalli. Sono molti e molto belli i testi dedicati a questi uomini e queste donne di catrame, vittime tutte e tutte ancora in grado di parlare.
Le cronache nascoste nella torba sono imparentate con il presente, e il luogo è ormai ben radicato nell'immaginazione del poeta. Ecco infatti la seconda strofa di Kinship (Parentele, incerta traduzione mia):
Pantano, palude, acquitrino,
i regni di melma,
domini dei sangue-freddo,
di blocchi fangosi e uova sporcate.
Ma bog
vuol dire soffice,
cade la pioggia senza vento,
pupilla d'ambra.
Terra ruminante,
digestione di molluschi
e baccelli di semi,
profondi scarti di polline.
Dispensa della terra, cripta di ossa,
argine del sole, imbalsamatrice
di beni votivi
e fuggitivi falciati.
Sposa insaziabile.
Mangiatrice di spade,
bara, tumulo,
banco di ghiaccio della storia.
Terra che si spoglierà
del suo lato oscuro,
terra di nidi,
entroterra della mia mente.
[...]
E se la sua poesia più famosa è Digging, che è anche il suo antico manifesto, di nuovo Heaney scava (le piccole vanghe con cui dalla torba si fanno mattoncini compaiono spesso qua e là, fino a diventare monumento, obelisco piantato nel terreno) per riscoprire quanto vi stia sopra. La seconda parte della raccolta cambia radicalmente, e dalle violenze vichinghe si passa alle violenze settarie; il discorso si allunga e si abbassa, il privato del poeta prende molto più spazio. Fuori dal buio limaccioso della torba l'aria "is pounding like a stethoscope" per i tamburi orangisti, che scandiscono il ritmo del Ministero della paura in cui il poeta vive. Heaney si interroga qui sul suo ruolo, sulla sua assoluta ma sofferta distanza dai ringhi e dalle rivendicazioni nazionalistiche; è compassionevole, più che neutrale.
Così in Freedman:
[...]
Then poetry arrived in that city -
I would abjure all cant and self-pity -
And poetry wiped my brow and sped me.
Now they will say I bite the hand that fed me.
December 10, 2019
I believe I have found one of my all time favourite poets. Mythology intertwined with Irish heritage, folklore and desperation.
The reader can taste the salty ocean spray, and five minutes later read the same passage and find a Greek reference that was there the whole time.
A true master.
Highly recommended
The reader can taste the salty ocean spray, and five minutes later read the same passage and find a Greek reference that was there the whole time.
A true master.
Highly recommended
August 15, 2017
Als je zin hebt om duizendmiljoen verwijzingen naar de Vikingen, Scandinavische mythen, de steentijd, moerassen (eindeloos) en elk moment in de geschiedenis waar iemand/iets gekoloniseerd werd uit te pluizen, is dit je boek. Gelukkig bestaat Google.
May 12, 2016
Who, blowing up these sparks
For their meagre heat, have missed
The once-in-a-lifetime portent.
The comet's pulsing rose.
For their meagre heat, have missed
The once-in-a-lifetime portent.
The comet's pulsing rose.
July 18, 2022
A poetic autobiography of sorts, in this collection Heaney seeks to examine what Northern Ireland is and what it means to be from there. I was intrigued by this, given my own desire to better understand this place I come from, but left with a better understanding of who Heaney was.
The collection is divided into two sections. The first is on ancient Ireland, exploring the nameless denizens of the bog and the Vikings who long ago invaded. It was as interesting here what was missing as what was included: the Gael is nameless, mere bones to be unearthed. Gunnar is given a voice to speak, but not Cuchulann - why? Is the nameless queen of the bog Maeve herself? Heaney won’t tell, leaving us with a sense of how enigmatic such ancient history is. The second section more clearly focuses on the modern Troubles and Heaney’s experience of them, from encounters with police to a trip to Madrid where the images of Goya’s Black Paintings conjure up the violence of Ulster. The strong associations with an invading and self-defined masculine force also help explain the silence of the feminine native of Ulster in the first half.
Overall this is a brilliant collection, and worth picking up if you’re at all interested in Heaney, Northern Ireland, or just poetry.
The collection is divided into two sections. The first is on ancient Ireland, exploring the nameless denizens of the bog and the Vikings who long ago invaded. It was as interesting here what was missing as what was included: the Gael is nameless, mere bones to be unearthed. Gunnar is given a voice to speak, but not Cuchulann - why? Is the nameless queen of the bog Maeve herself? Heaney won’t tell, leaving us with a sense of how enigmatic such ancient history is. The second section more clearly focuses on the modern Troubles and Heaney’s experience of them, from encounters with police to a trip to Madrid where the images of Goya’s Black Paintings conjure up the violence of Ulster. The strong associations with an invading and self-defined masculine force also help explain the silence of the feminine native of Ulster in the first half.
Overall this is a brilliant collection, and worth picking up if you’re at all interested in Heaney, Northern Ireland, or just poetry.
December 9, 2023
Bog bodies absolutely fascinate me.
December 31, 2023
IRELAND MENTIONED ‼️‼️💯 🇮🇪 🇮🇪 🫡🥶
April 19, 2021
once again ashamed to be british <333
April 17, 2020
The poet in time of war.
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April 8, 2024Heaney's poetry is beautiful. This collection specifically is laced with a lot of classical/historical references along with references to a troubled Ireland creating a beautiful blend of past and present in a collection that reminds the reader that a divided land taints daily life. Definitely will read more of his poetry soon. Specifically loved 'Whatever you say, say nothing' and 'Funeral Rites' if you are not up for reading the whole collection.
February 4, 2017
Seamus Heaney is one of those authors I've always heard of but never read.
~
Reading his 1975 poetry anthology, North, was both difficult and insightful for me. It displayed how patterns of violence in Ireland has repeated itself throughout time.
~
Have you read any Heaney? Do you read poems for pleasure?
~
Reading his 1975 poetry anthology, North, was both difficult and insightful for me. It displayed how patterns of violence in Ireland has repeated itself throughout time.
~
Have you read any Heaney? Do you read poems for pleasure?
May 21, 2024
Also read for poco lit. This might have been better than death of a naturalist. This introduces the new idea of bog bodies whose deaths are actually a metaphor for the cyclical nature of the violence of the troubles and the painful and beautiful complex nature of Irish political history. But I like how Heaney sticks to his main theme, which is just how cool digging is.
October 29, 2018
Normally I’d give family five stars anyway, but this is truly a masterpiece of near-modern Irish politics using the far Britannic past as a surprisingly good metaphor. Give it a chance - if you can find a copy!
August 8, 2020
Maybe a 4.5? Not sure how the two Greek Mythology poems fit the collection, but it was nevertheless solid.
I particularly love the poems about the bog bodies and the more political ones about the Troubles.
(Longer review to follow)
I particularly love the poems about the bog bodies and the more political ones about the Troubles.
(Longer review to follow)
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