This past Sunday I had the opportunity to listen to Seamus Heaney read and answer questions at the College of Saint Benedict (my Alma Mater) in Saint Joseph, MN. Though poetry isn’t exactly my thing, my appreciation for having such a well established writer of any persuasion visiting where I used to study was more than enough to compel me to trek back. I took my mother and father with me, with some reluctance on both of their parts (and admittedly mine) at the prospect of spending such a beautiful afternoon indoors. I couldn’t be happier that the shining sun did not steal me from my seat at this reading.
Currently in the process of writing my Master of Arts in Liberal Studies Synthesis, I am in constant search of things that will help to light the fire needed to keep moving forward in a project of such a size. As any creator knows—and writers in particular, there reaches a point when you need something to remind you of why it is you work so hard, when you need someone to show you something beautiful so that you can reach your grasp towards such success in your own work.
Though I am not a poet, I found myself amazed at how re-energized I became listening to Mr. Heaney read his work, and explain little bits of where different pieces of his were rooted. Even more invigorating was watching as my parents connected with certain poems that were read. There were a few points where I found my breath suddenly extracted from my lungs, as though I was scared to breath so as not to interrupt the beautiful lyric, rhythm, and images that were being cast.
During the question and answer portion after the reading, I heard my mother gasp to catch her breath after Mr. Heaney recited from memory his poem ‘Follower’. My mother grew up on a farm and lost her father the year before I was born. Her face held a beautiful mixture of sadness and delight—ever aware that her father is gone, yet delighted at this feeling of closeness to ones own past that is brought forth in others’ experiences.
At a certain point in the reading I almost found it difficult to discern what was being read of a piece and what was part of an anecdote about the piece (this might show that I am not overly familiar with his work). The rhythm and lyric in his poetry are present in his colloquial speech, and this most of all I found an incredible thing to have discovered. What I have always strived for in my own work is just that—the rhythm, flow, and familiarity of a pleasant conversation, of a well-recited oratory. Any of my favorite writers all have that in common. You can hear their voice through their work, their words are not simply ink upon a page, pixels on a screen, there is breath within and around and behind them. That is what I strive for in my own work, that is what I look for in the work of others, no matter what the genre. Thank you, Seamus Heaney for the reminder.
