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Heaney is an incredible poet, but he is a poet with a long and remarkable career - one can love his poetry and find that a particular collection doesn't connect. Maybe it's just a matter of taste, but even for me, with a Classics degree, his love of classical metaphor and reference gets a bit wearying over time. One of the problems of poetry is, as it exists in its most popular incarnations, it is intended to 'speak to' people, and yet Heaney's displays of erudition more often just make me want to concede, to acknowledge, to clap politely at his mastery of language. He is a little remote himself, and his interests don't always seem to align with mine, and so I feel a gulf similar to those I've felt among, essentially, all Irish men of his generation.

Time and time again I read poetry and feel things such as these and wonder what the point is of writing; it must be obvious to any reader that I do not even really like poetry. That is a long road. I haven't yet found a voice to speak with any true conviction or authority.