Seamus Heaney, the renowned Irish poet, was known for his evocative and poignant exploration of various themes, including death. Heaney’s poems about death offer a unique perspective on mortality, often reflecting on the fragility of life and the inevitability of our ultimate demise. Through vivid imagery and powerful language, he captures the complex emotions and universal experiences associated with death. In this article, we will explore some of Seamus Heaney’s most remarkable poems about death.
Seamus Heaney’s poetry is deeply rooted in his Irish heritage and often draws inspiration from nature and rural life. His poems about death reflect his fascination with the cycle of life and the interconnectedness of all living beings. Heaney explores the themes of loss, grief, and the transient nature of existence, inviting readers to confront their own mortality and contemplate the meaning of life.
In his poems about death, Heaney’s language is both lyrical and visceral, painting vivid pictures that resonate with readers. He skillfully combines personal experiences, historical events, and mythological references to explore the timeless questions surrounding mortality. Through his poetry, Heaney invites us to confront the inevitability of death and find solace in the shared human experience.
Unique and Beautiful Seamus Heaney Poems About Death
“The Tollund Man”
I could risk blasphemy,
Consecrate the cauldron bog
Our holy ground and pray
Him to make germinate
The scattered, ambushed
Flesh of labourers,
Stockinged corpses
Laid out in the farmyards,
Tell-tale skin and teeth
Flecking the sleepers
Of four young brothers,
Tenderly walled alive
In concrete for eternity.
– Excerpt from “The Tollund Man”
“The Grauballe Man”
As if he had been poured
In tar, he lies
On a pillow of turf
And seems to weep
The black river of himself.
The grain of his wrists
Is like bog oak,
The ball of his heel
Like a basalt egg.
His instep has shrunk
Cold as a swan’s foot
Or a wet swamp root.
His hips are the ridge
And purse of a mussel,
His spine an eel arrested
Under a glisten of mud.
– Excerpt from “The Grauballe Man”
“Casualty”
And then the shot-slashed furrows threw up a flock
Of starlings that stooped whistling
To fake a life
And I drew a line
Underneath the last word of the year
And waited
For the sky to perform its annual miracle,
Burning off the usual sulphur-catalysts
To find a perch on the nose-cone of the year,
Hitching a lift on a firework:
That was the way my thoughts went,
And the sky’s annual combustion,
Making coal of the year’s midnight
Like a blacksmith’s weld exploding an iron myth.
– Excerpt from “Casualty”
“The Underground”
I listen like the cave blindfolded,
Underground there is nothing but the dead.
This is the home of the crocodile, the dragonfly,
The woodpigeon, the dead who are always with us.
– Excerpt from “The Underground”
“Clearances: In Memoriam M.K.H., 1911-1984”
The cool that came off sheets just off the line
Made me think the damp must still be in them
But when I took my corners of the linen
And pulled against her, first straight down the hem
And then diagonally, then flapped and shook
The fabric like a sail in a cross-wind,
They made a dried-out undulating thwack.
So we’d stretch and fold and end up hand to hand
For a split second as if nothing had happened
For nothing had that had not always happened
Beforehand, day by day, just touch and go,
Coming close again by holding back
In moves where I was x and she was o
Inscribed in sheets she’d sewn from ripped-out flour sacks.
– Excerpt from “Clearances: In Memoriam M.K.H., 1911-1984”
“The Betrothal of Cavehill”
Though the blue-black morning frost
Still lay on the rhododendron
The cave mouth up on Cave Hill
Was already full of sun.
– Excerpt from “The Betrothal of Cavehill”
“The Strand at Lough Beg”
He would drink by himself
And raise a weathered thumb
Towards the high shelf,
Calling another rum
And blackcurrant, without
Having to raise his voice,
Or order a quick stout
By a lifting of the eyes
And a discreet dumb-show
Of pulling off the top;
At closing time would go
In waders and peaked cap
Into the showery dark,
A dole-kept breadwinner
But a natural for work.
I loved his whole manner,
Sure-footed but too sly,
His deadpan sidling tact,
His fisherman’s quick eye
And turned observant back.
– Excerpt from “The Strand at Lough Beg”
“The Blackbird of Glanmore”
On the grass when I arrive,
Filling the stillness with life,
But ready to scare off
At the very first wrong move.
In the ivy when I leave.
– Excerpt from “The Blackbird of Glanmore”
“The Harvest Bow”
As you plaited the harvest bow
You implicated the mellowed silence in you
In wheat that does not rust
But brightens as it tightens twist by twist
Into a knowable corona,
A throwaway love-knot of straw.
– Excerpt from “The Harvest Bow”
“The Given Note”
On the most westerly Blasket
In a dry-stone hut
He got this air out of the night
Freshly, as if electrically;
And well though distantly
He heard me playing
And soon was in beside me.
– Excerpt from “The Given Note”
These are just a few examples of Seamus Heaney’s remarkable poems about death. Each poem offers a unique perspective on mortality, inviting readers to contemplate the fleeting nature of life and the enduring power of memory. Heaney’s exploration of death is both haunting and beautiful, leaving a profound impact on those who engage with his work.
