Seamus Heaney from 40 poems you must know

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Poems You Must Know

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ELIZABETH BISHOP HAS AN UNFORGETTABLE DESCRIPTION OF FIRE BALLOONS: ‘This is the time of year/ when almost every night/ the frail, illegal fire balloons appear‌ the paper chambers flush and fill with light/ that comes and goes, like hearts.’ The past few weeks have been spent playing an elaborate version of another kind of hot-air balloon game — the one where you choose a handful of writers or thinkers and passionately make a case for their ticket to survive. I know that I won’t be alone in having the strongest of views about who this basket soaring across the summer sky must have in it. Time and again, friends and colleagues have lobbied passionately for their favourites. If some are missing, it’s heartening, too, to know that neither 40 nor 400 could do justice to the wealth of poetry written, and being written now. Bishop’s balloons fuse with the stars (once up against the sky, it’s hard to tell them apart, she says). For the galaxy of poets that is The Spectator’s Forty Poems You Must Know, I find it hard to think of a more apt image. I hope you agree. /LIVIA #OLE

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MacNeice: a sense of loss honed early

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he purple colour of rain in Trafalgar Square, the thick warm breeze of the Underground, the way every postcode becomes associated with a different memory, ‘and all of London littered with remembered kisses’ — MacNeice’s world is one that can seem little changed. After classics at Oxford he fought in the Spanish Civil War, and worked first as a classics professor in Birmingham, and later as a journalist. He died, aged 57, after catching pneumonia while making a film about potholing for the BBC. MacNeice’s greatest long poem is ‘Autumn Journal’: his diary, in verse, at the time of the appeasement crisis. Writing about his own tangled

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love affairs and personal morality became his way of addressing the crisis. ‘I loved my love‌ between the lines and against the clock’, he tells us. The tendency to write about the public through the private is one of his lasting inspirations. In 1939, in New York, one affair painfully at an end, MacNeice met Eleanor Clark, a left-wing activist and journalist (aged just 23) — and wrote ‘Meeting Point’. Around them the coffee shop and the city suddenly seem like a stage set — ‘There were two glasses and two chairs’ — and even the subway’s escalators have, impossibly, stopped in their tracks. Writing on the boat as he sailed back to Britain, he was determined to change his life to be with her, though the poem can’t help but hint at huge distances to be crossed. In the poem though, time stands still, and life is as easy to arrange as coffee cups on the table despite the fact that he was already at a distance of many miles (ocean not desert). A sense of loss and transience was honed early, both by his experiences at war and, even more, by the premature death of his mother, recounted so devastatingly in the simple couplets of ‘Autobiography’: ‘My mother wore a yellow dress;/ Gently, gently, gentleness.// Come back early or never come.// When I was five the black dreams came;/ Nothing after was quite the same.’ That knowingness and loss is caught in ‘The Sunlight on the Garden’, from his second collection The Earth Compels: ‘The sunlight on the garden/ Hardens and grows cold,/ We cannot cage the minute/ Within its nets of gold,/ When all is told./ We cannot beg for pardon‌’ he counsels, ‘We are dying Egypt, dying// And not expecting pardon./ But glad to have sat under/ Thunder and rain with you,/ And grateful too/ For sunlight on the garden.’ Outwitting the cold and the empty garden, MacNeice’s company, too, is something for which readers, ever since, have been grateful.

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could hardly be said that the emotive, explosive danger of Hughes, and the ‘new’ doubt in ‘gentility’ noted by Al Alvarez, wasn’t simmering away here too. At least to start with, the Elizabethan approach was perhaps in part due to the difficulty of speaking as himself; he left a very homophobic 1950s Britain (‘Fighting Terms’ invokes a largely fictitious female ‘you’) and he only came out in his writing after his (literal) flight to America to teach at Stanford, and to be with his partner Mike Kitay. Even more traumatically, in his past loomed the shocking end of his childhood with the suicide of his mother, who killed herself when Gunn was still a teenager. He didn’t write ‘The Gas-Poker’, his only poem about her death, until 48 years later, finally pinning down the terrible memory of himself and his brother, locked out, adrift in some all too real fairytale: ‘The children went to and fro/ On the harsh winter lawn/ Repeating their lament,/ A burden to each other/ In the December dawn,/ Elder and younger brother,/ Till they knew what it meant.’ In the 1980s, as Aids invaded the paradise he’d found in America, it proved an impossibly tough challenge to remain the faceless poet. His and his generation’s losses were documented powerfully in The Man with the Night Sweats. In his love poetry too, most famously ‘The Hug’, ‘I’ it is safe to assume is a literally and figuratively naked ‘I’. In the 1960s Edmund White described Gunn living in San Francisco as ‘the last of the commune dwellers... serious and intellectual by day and druggy and sexual by night’, providing the context for ‘A Map of the City’ from My Sad Captains. ‘The crowded, broken and unfinished’ encounters in the night, the love of ‘chance’ and of risk-taking and of danger (sexual, emotional, chemical) — that world is here. As much as a map of the city it’s a map of the soul.

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n his own hard-won terms, Heaney is the last of the 20th century’s giants. A poem, said Elizabeth Bishop (one of his favourites), should be ‘useless and free’. A Catholic from the Protestant North, his poetry has always negotiated a careful path through the ‘tribe’ mentality of Irish politics. His first political poems in 1975’s North came at Ireland through poems superficially, at least, about the Scandinavian bog people. From his 1979 collection Field Work (1979), ‘Casualty’ shows how, even when turning to face events more directly as an elegist, his ‘tentative art’ has managed to keep its independence. He can all too easily identify with his dead friend, swimming towards company, warm places and an avoidable death. Out there with him, he says: ‘I tasted freedom’. Heaney has even spoken of poetic inspiration as a ‘tug’ on the line. Significant, too, is the missed chance to talk about what he actually did (‘my other life’). ‘Question me again’, he says, regretting the intellectual’s shyness in front of the inquisitive everyman. (In the early ‘Digging’, writing a poem is a ridiculous thing compared to working the land.) As much as his political poems, Heaney’s love poetry (and he has written some of the great poems of domestic love) has always been delivered at a slant, from ‘Night Drive’, in praise of familiarity (‘I thought of you continuously/ A thousand miles south where Italy/ Laid its loin to France on the darkened sphere./ Your ordinariness was renewed there’) to ‘The Skunk’, written in California. ‘Night after night/ I expected her like a visitor’ while (in one of his loveliest lines) ‘The beautiful, useless/ VI Poems You Must Know: Part One

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Poems You Must Know Tang of eucalyptus spelt your absence.’ And then the shift into the present: ‘It all came back to me last night‌/ Your head-down, tail-up hunt in a bottom drawer/ For the black plunge-line nightdress.’ Heaney’s uxorious skunk perhaps pads after Robert Lowell’s in his 1959 poem ‘Skunk Hour’, where the poet looks longingly at the skunks, who protect their young, and ‘will not scare’. Ending his Life Studies volume they represented his determination to write about his own life. Heaney pinpoints that spell teaching in California in 1971 as the time when he first accepted his calling as a writer; on his return he became a full-time poet. Perhaps it’s not too fanciful to see Heaney’s uxorious Californian skunk, too, as representing an imagination that will not ‘scare’; however tough the tests, he continues to be as good as his word.

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or all his share of pain, there’s a great American optimism in Frank O’Hara (1926-1966). An ordinary day has the ability to be miraculous — a note- or a poem-worthy event. He did national service in the navy (accounting for the authentically oceanic strand in his vision), and moved to New York after studying at Harvard (thanks to the GI Bill). He worked at the Museum of Modern Art, first selling postcards and talking to his friends, later as a respected curator. Playful and conversational, with a skein of sadness and near-baroque flights of fancy, he has as much splash as the painters of his generation and as little regard for the rules. He was only half kidding when he said that poetry must have the immediacy of a phone call. Even when he wrote about sadness, he did it with a kind of distracting extravagance: ‘Let’s advance and change everything but leave these little oases in/ case the heart gets thirsty.’ Sadness can even be funny, as when he says of a row: ‘That’s not a cross

look — it’s a sign of life.’ ‘July is Over and There’s Very Little Trace’ is a pretend love affair with winter in appropriately nearly rhyming (as if nearly chiming true) couplets: ‘The trees are taking off their leaves. So/ the purity of the streets is coming, low,// in white waves. In summer I got good and sunburnt,/ winter, so I wouldn’t miss the wet brunt// of your storms.’ O’Hara’s world is a passport to early 1960s New York. His elegies for Billie Holiday, Lana Turner and James Dean catch the way that, for the first time, headlines projected stars into everyday lives. Back on earth, his muses were the centre of his creative universe. ‘Having a Coke With You’ (to Vincent Warren, his most important muse) careers along with the conversational animated glee that the statues lack, and yet teeters on the brink saying something serious. What does it matter how good an artist (or, we might imply, writer) you are, if you ‘never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank’? That need to ‘tell’, in which O’Hara takes such pleasure in the final line, is one the most joyful evocations of just where the line between a wordy poet and a lover is drawn. It’s half an almost flippant line thrown away, and half a blunt throwing down of his heart.

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.B. Yeats (1865-1939) is the poet whose greatest admirers would concede an element of the eccentric (or even the barking mad). Auden’s great elegy (‘He disappeared in the dead of winter:/ The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted‌ The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day’) presents Yeats’s death, in January 1939, as an earth-changing event but also has reservations: You were silly like us; your gift survived it all: The parish of rich women, physical decay, Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry. Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still,

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