The Political Forum

THE MASTER and THE ARTIST
Seamus Heaney (1939 - )

Seamus Heaney was the fourth poet to be featured in this poem-a-week project of mine. The poem was "Digging," which I noted had been a long-time favorite of mine because it speaks to the power of the pen, a phenomenon that has always fascinated me and with which I am quite familiar, having read many histories concerning the rise and fall of great men and great nations, and the writers who always set the stage upon which these dramas unfold.

The two Heaney poems featured this week are among many favorites of mine from this highly influential master and artist, who is generally acknowledged as one of the world's greatest living poets. They deal with the single-mindedness and innate conservatism that so often accompanies genius, another phenomenon that has piqued my interest down through the years.

Please enjoy Heaney's genius, as displayed in these two poems, along with my wish that you have a happy and prosperous New Year.

The Master

He dwelt in himself
like a rook in an unroofed tower.

To get close I had to climb long
and hard up deserted ramparts
and not flinch, not raise an eye
to search for an eye on the watch
from his coign of seclusion.

Deliberately he would unclasp
his book of withholding
a page at a time and it was nothing
arcane, just the old rules
we all had inscribed on our slates.
Each character blocked on the parchment secure
in its volume and measure.
Each maxim given its space.

Tell the truth. Do not be afraid.
Durable, obstinate notions,
like quarrymen's hammers and wedges proofed
by intransigent service.
Like coping stones where you rest
in the balm of the wellspring.

How flimsy I felt climbing down
the unrailed stairs on the wall,
hearing the purpose and venture
in a wingflap above me.

The Artist

I love the thought of his anger.
His obstinacy against the rock, his coercion
of the substance from green apples.

The way he was a dog barking
at the image of himself barking.
And his hatred of his own embrace
of working as the only thing that worked -
the vulgarity of expecting ever
gratitude or admiration, which
would mean a stealing from him.

The way his fortitude held and hardened
because he did what he knew.
His forehead like a hurled boule
travelling unpainted space
behind the apple and behind the mountain.

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