Walking on Air

'Final revisions of my Heaney tribute'

Hung over, Dublin scotched --

the liver and kidneys verging on mutiny --

the Times threw me a lifeline --

the old naturalist -- a half day away.

 

Five years, to the day  

the earth stuttered and grieved,

the spades tapped into the black

loam of beloved roots --

the hallowed soil ploughed to rows end.  

 

Like so many others, word

of Heaney’s passing

sucked a language from

my spirit -- damped

the lamp room he’d kept alight

so strayed angels might find their way

back through the inky spume of muddling along

along the tendentious tides of consternation.

 

Hughes had written: how

he considered him the voice

of Irishness -- 

but more than geography

defined the immeasurable gift

of measured lines straddling

the stiles between here and now

and memories -- the ancient wake

of seasons wending somewhere

we were meant to remember.

 

If I’d learned anything: poetry

was history condensed to the molecular.

Every word was ground you had

to be prepared to fight over --

when you put a stake into the page

your intention needed to sing

this is where I stand.

 

In the late afternoon of a summer’s end,

having followed my impulse north,

I found him tucked away -- 

the stone, like his verse, free

of ostentation -- simple

but direct in its direction …

 

the choices one makes, every

syllable, extracts a breath …

brings you one step nearer to an end --

the last gift: walk on air against

your better judgment …  

Ken e Bujold

Reviews

[Ken Simm.]

I once had a tee that said I know Seamus on the front and I do too written on the back. You are quite right. The Man. Written by another man.

[Ken e Bujold]

he was indeed. I had the pleasure of meeting him briefly, twice. A very engaging, down-to-earth fellow. And one of my poet icons.

[emmajoygreen]

Just as you have shown your feelings, admiration and more, Heaney would have nodded his head in your direction, Ken.. the following is special

' the immeasurable gift
of measured lines straddling
the stiles between here and now
and memories -- the ancient wake
of seasons wending somewhere
we were meant to remember.'

[W. Barrett Munn]

I’m pretty certain Seamus would approve. Not a syllable out of place or wasted. The bridge players call this being “in form”, and in form you are.

Winston

[Casey Truax]

"poetry / was history condensed to the molecular" is a striking thought. Both poetry and history are accounts, in a sense, and it is arguable whether they do or should convey literal truth. By "condensed to the molecular" I think you mean a focus on subjective experience?

[Ken e Bujold]

in order for poetry to sing, it needs to be personal. Not in the sense of autobiographical, or confessional, but it does need to be felt. Not sure if you're familiar with the work of the subject Casey: if not I highly recommend reading Heaney. The beauty of his work is almost unquantifiable. Diction, cadence, theme: all there and why he was considered the greatest living poet of the last 50 yrs. What I learned from him is to commit to a poem. Feel it, or as I write> 'defend your ground, plant your stake. For young writers, North American in particular, his language can be tough. As an irishman he spoke and wrote in the everyday language of his home, but once you immerse yourself you begin to discover the beauty of language, how words sound a meaning as much as convey a thought. Or, condense to the molecular

ken

[Chris Shaw]

I am a huge fan of Heaney, a lesser fan of Hughes. Loved my visits to Dublin. You have some great lines here

when you put a stake into the page - that is so powerful visually and yet so simple in word choice

I like simple and direct. An excellent read Ken. I hope your Christmas was as enjoyable as mine.

Chris

[Betty Hermelee]

Memories of poet friends and what they had to say……. Some writing about past events, history….. some writing about their “Irishness”….. looking back on these poets, you must make your own epitaph and write and re- write until it suits you…..as you near to death, every word counts on your grave….walking on air I think is a way of saying we must rise above the mundane, though the past poets’ memories do linger on…forever….complex and beautiful!
Warmly, B