We are drowning in information, while starving for wisdom..

Poetry | 31 Aug 2013

To see myself, to set the darkness echoing

Poet of The Silent Things..

Seamus Heaney was sipping bourbon during a Boston snowstorm 30 years ago, trying to explain his poetry as an escape from a terrible fear of silence that always haunted him. “What is the source of our first suffering?” he asked, quoting the French philosopher Gaston Bachelard. “It lies in the fact that we hesitated to speak.

If I could make poetry that could touch into that kind of thing, that is what I would like to do,” he said, stoking his resolve to pursue “The silent things within us.”

NPG 6703; Seamus Heaney by Tai-Shan Schierenberg

At the core of Seamus Heaney’s poetry a profound experience is revealed – that a gap exists between the totality of what can be said and the totality of all that can be witnessed, between the limits of languages and the margins of the actual world in which we live. For Heaney ‘poetry’ is a means of measuring this gap – if not bridging it.  – Ola Larsmo

3 Responses to “To see myself, to set the darkness echoing”

  1. on 31 Aug 2013 at 7:22 PM 1.Marie Ancolie said …

    We talk and talk and use new words and these words are full of emptiness.

    Words are unique and put together they can be disonant like a hand saw on rusty metal, or the most delightful beverage and food for imagination.

    I like the following poem written in 1975 as it brings us back to our childhood, back to simple and true life.
    Who.. nowadays would pay attention to the tinkle of the berry on the bottom of a tin can ?
    who nowaydays can feel within imagination “the fur,
    A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache”.

    Poetry as such a level is a curtain lifted above the mist of our life.
    When we go back to books made of paper, and hand writing with ink pens, and graphite pencils… suddenly you can just hear the first leaf falling even before seeing it.

    just my simple thoughts



    Late August, given heavy rain and sun
    For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
    At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
    Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
    You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
    Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was in it
    Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
    Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
    Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
    Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
    Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
    We trekked and picked until the cans were full
    Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
    With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
    Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
    With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard’s.
    We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
    But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
    A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
    The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
    The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
    I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair
    That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
    Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew they would not.”

  2. on 01 Sep 2013 at 9:26 AM 2.NIMESH DADIA said …

    Marie, so profoundly expressed. I heard the entire song autumn leaves in
    One sentence
    “To see the first leaf falling before seeing it”

  3. on 28 Oct 2013 at 2:24 PM 3.marie-ancolie said …

    I forgot to say that the poem is of course one I adore from the late Seamus Heaney

    Only the sentences above the poem are from me

Trackback This Post | Subscribe to the comments through RSS Feed

Leave a Reply

You must be logged in to post a comment.