By Seamus Heaney
As chosen via the writer, Opened flooring contains the basic paintings from Heaney's twelve past books of poetry, in addition to new sequences drawn from of his landmark translations, The medication at Troy and Sweeney off track, and several other formerly uncollected poems. Heaney's voice is like no other--"by turns mythological and journalistic, rural and complex, reminiscent and impatient, stern and yielding, curt and expansive" (Helen Vendler, the hot Yorker)--and this can be a one-volume testomony to the musicality and precision of that voice. The publication closes with Heaney's Nobel Lecture: "Crediting Poetry."
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Extra info for Opened Ground: Selected Poems, 1966-1996
At dusk, horizons drink down sea and hill, The ploughed :held swallows the whitewashed gable And you're in the dark again. Now recall The glazed foreshore and silhouetted log, That rock where breakers shredded into rags, The leggy birds stilted on their own legs, Islands riding themselves out into the fog, And drive back home, still with nothing to say Except that now you will uncode all landscapes By this: things founded clean on their own shapes, Water and ground in their extremity. 22 Requiem for the Crappies The pockets of our greatcoats full of barley No kitchens on the run, no striking camp We moved quick and sudden in our own country.
Or did you re-pass them? Here were bleyberries quilting the floor, The black char of a fire, And having found them once You were sure to find them again. Someone had always been there Though always you were alone. Lovers, birdwatchers, Campers, gypsies and tramps Left some trace of their trades Or their excrement. Hedging the road so It im ited all comers To the hush and the mush Of its whispering treadmill, Its limits defmed, So they thought, from outside. They must ha, e been thankful For the hum of the traffic ;8 If they ventured in Past the picnickers' belt Or began to recall Tales of fog on the mountains.
So whether he calls it spirit music Or not, I don't care. He took it Out of wind off mid-Atlantic. Still he maintains, from nowhere. It comes off the bow gravely, Rephrases itself into the air. Whinlands All year round the whin Can show a blossom or two But it's in full bloom now. As if the small yolk stain From all the birds' eggs in All the nests of the spring Were spiked and hung Everywhere on bushes to ripen. Hills oxidize gold. Above the smoulder of green shoot And dross of dead thorns underfoot The blossoms scald.