Seamus Heaney.
Must I say more?
I suppose I must, for those who have never had the pleasure of seeing this great man and great poet read. To the uninitiated, one must first say that Heaney was born in Northern Ireland, and he is an Irishman through and through. For me, this means he has a shock of puffy white hair, a warmhearted manner, and a gift for gab. I mean, the man can really talk. He’s funny, erudite, and full of stories about this and that, that and this, and that other thing. I’ve seen him read several times now (every time he’s within a hundred miles, I make the trip, like those crazy Phishheads, except with a lot less drug abuse) and each time he manages to tell a tale that gets the audience giggling. Anyone who’s ever been to an "important literary event" will recognize this as a feat.
But let me get to the point. Heaney has unreasonable skill with language. The man can turn a phrase, turn it back again, flip it over and slap you in the face with it like a wet mackerel. (Please, gentle readers, it’s just a metaphor. Don’t abuse fish.) Heaney is a genius with alliteration, creating music from the barest of tools. I believe he is better at this than anyone since Hopkins. You can argue with me. Please do. Send me an email. Then go back to the poem, read it a hundred times, and feel embarrassed about disputing the point.
Postscript
And some time make the time to drive out west
Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,
In September or October, when the wind
And the light are working off each other
So that the ocean on one side is wild
With foam and glitter, and inland among stones
The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit
By the earthed lightning of a flock of swans,
Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,
Their fully grown headstrong-looking heads
Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.
Useless to think you’ll park and capture it
More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,
A hurry through which known and strange things pass
As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
And catch the heart off guard and blow it open.
Seamus Heaney, from The Spirit Level (1996)
