Seamus Heaney
@HeaneyDaily
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A daily quote from the poetry, prose & translations of Seamus Heaney, Nobel Laureate in Literature.
Bellaghy Derry, Ireland
Joined September 2013
A great Irish poet and singer left us today. She was beautiful, courageous and wore her heart on her sleeve. She was before her time. Nothing will ever compare to Sinéad O’Connor. Rest easy Sinéad.
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History says, don't hope.On this side of the grave. But then, once in a lifetime.The longed-for tidal wave.Of justice can rise up,.And hope and history rhyme.
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Hope is not optimism, which expects things to turn out well, but something rooted in the conviction that there is good worth working for.
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History says, don't hope.On this side of the grave. But then, once in a lifetime.The longed-for tidal wave.Of justice can rise up,.And hope and history rhyme.
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“The days are getting shorter and colder, but I ask you to remember: even as the winter comes in, there is hope and there is light." . Perseverance.
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My heart besieged by anger, my mind a gap of danger. I walked among their old haunts. the home ground where they bled;.And in the dirt lay justice like an acorn in the winter.Till its oak would sprout in Derry.where the thirteen men lay dead. #BloodySunday50
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Everything Is Going To Be All Right. Derek Mahon, Irish poet, RIP
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Be advised my passport’s green. No glass of ours was ever raised.to toast the Queen.
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History says, Don’t hope.On this side of the grave,.But then, once in a lifetime.The longed-for tidal wave.Of justice can rise up.And hope and history rhyme.
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Believe that a farther shore.Is reachable from here. Believe in miracles.And cures and healing wells.
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History says, Don’t hope.On this side of the grave,.But then, once in a lifetime.The longed-for tidal wave.Of justice can rise up.And hope and history rhyme. Believe that a farther shore .Is reachable from here. Believe in miracles.And cures and healing wells.
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Late August, given heavy rain and sun.For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot . Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was in it.Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for Picking.
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On Christmas Eve my father would tell us, . “He’s on his way now, coming round Slieve Gallon, if you listen hard maybe you’ll hear the sleigh bells.” . I remember climbing the beech tree at the end of our lane, listening through the frosty air.
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On Christmas Eve my father would tell us, ‘He’s on his way now,.coming round Slieve Gallon, if you listen hard maybe you’ll hear the sleigh bells.’ I remember climbing the beech tree at the end of our lane, listening through the frosty air.
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Anything can happen, the tallest towers.Be overturned, those in high places daunted,.Those overlooked regarded.
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Believe that a farther shore.Is reachable from here. Believe in miracles .And cures and healing wells.
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On Christmas Eve my father would tell us, ‘He’s on his way now, coming round Slieve Gallon, if you listen hard maybe you’ll hear the sleigh bells.’ I remember climbing the beech tree at the end of our lane, listening through the frosty air.
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We have wintered this one out and we will summer anywhere. 🇮🇪.
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John Hume made hope and history rhyme. He was the once in a lifetime oak tree who rose up with a longed-for tidal wave of justice. A patriot. RIP
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So hope for a great sea-change.On the far side of revenge. Believe that a farther shore.Is reachable from here. Believe in miracles.And cures and healing wells.
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Happy 82nd Birthday Seamus Heaney. “We should keep our feet on the ground to signify that nothing is beneath us, but we should also lift up our eyes to say nothing is beyond us.”
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So hope for a great sea-change.On the far side of revenge. Believe that a farther shore.Is reachable from here. Believe in miracles.And cures and healing wells. Here’s to a better, safer 2022. Athbhliain faoi shéan is faoi mhaise daoibh! Happy New Year!.
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Today is the tenth anniversary of the death of Seamus Heaney. “Walk on air against your better judgement”
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History says, don't hope. But then, once in a lifetime.The longed for tidal wave .Of justice can rise up.And hope and history rhyme. Today is the twentieth anniversary of the Good Friday Agreement, bringing peace to Northern Ireland.
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Hope is not optimism, which expects things to turn out well, but something rooted in the conviction that there is good worth working for.
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History says, don't hope. But then, once in a lifetime.The longed for tidal wave .Of justice can rise up.And hope and history rhyme.
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History says, Don’t hope.On this side of the grave. But then, once in a lifetime .The longed-for tidal wave.Of justice can rise up,.And hope and history rhyme.
Every girl deserves a Granda like Joe to guide them through life. What a guy 🥺 . @SaoirseJackson #DerryGirls
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Between my finger and my thumb.The squat pen rests. I’ll dig with it.
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Late August, given heavy rain and sun.For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot . Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was in it.Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for.Picking.
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When all the others were away at Mass.I was all hers as we peeled potatoes. They broke the silence, let fall one by one.Like solder weeping off the soldering iron:.Cold comforts set between us, things to share…. Never closer the whole rest of our lives.
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The great Kerry and Irish poet, Brendan Kennelly, has died. “Every beginning is a promise.born in light and dying in dark.determination and exaltation of springtime .flowering the way to work”. May his gentle soul rest in peace.
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Winter -evening cold. Our backs might never warm up but our faces.Burned from the hearth-blaze and the hot whiskeys. As green sticks hissed and spat into the ashes.And what ever rampaged out there couldn’t reach us,.Firelit, shuttered, slated and stone-walled.
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On a Wednesday morning early I took the road to Derry.Along Glenshane and Foreglen and the cold woods of Hillhead:.A wet wind in the hedges and a dark cloud on the mountain.And flags like black frost mourning that the thirteen men were dead.
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Noli timere. Don't be afraid. Seamus Heaney’s last words.
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If there’s fire on the mountain.And lightning and storm.And a god speaks from the sky.That means someone is hearing.The outcry and the birth-cry.Of new life at its term. It means once in a lifetime.That justice can rise up.And hope and history rhyme.
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‘On Christmas Eve my father would tell us, ‘He’s on his way now, coming round Slieve Gallon, if you listen hard maybe you’ll hear the sleigh bells.” I remember climbing the beech tree at the end of our lane, listening through the frosty air.’.
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History says, Don’t hope.On this side of the grave,.But then, once in a lifetime.The longed-for tidal wave.Of justice can rise up.And hope and history rhyme.
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Late August, given heavy rain and sun .For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first just one, a glossy purple clot. Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was in it.Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for.Picking.
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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.
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Seamus Heaney is seven years dead today. When all the others were away at Mass.I was all hers as we peeled potatoes. They broke the silence, let fall one by one.Like solder weeping off the soldering iron:.Cold comforts set between us, things to share. #ForBabyRosie.
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So hope for a great sea-change.On the far side of revenge. Believe that a farther shore.Is reachable from here. Believe in miracles.And cures and healing wells. And hope and history rhyme.
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Ireland said goodbye to an Irish poet & balladeer today. I could have been someone.Well so could anyone.You took my dreams from me.When I first found you.I kept them with me babe.I put them with my own.Can't make it all alone.I've built my dreams around you. Shane MacGowan RIP.
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Anything can happen, the tallest towers.Be overturned, those in high places daunted,.Those overlooked regarded.
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Believe that a farther shore.Is reachable from here. Believe in miracles .And cures and healing wells.
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Fermanagh stonemason Michael Gerard Hoy shaped these famous Seamus Heaney words from stone.
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In the porch I met my father crying—.He had always taken funerals in his stride—.And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.
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When all the others were away at Mass.I was hers as we peeled potatoes. I remembered her head bent towards my head,.Her breath in mine, our fluent dipping knives—.Never closer the whole rest of our lives.
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If we winter* this one out we can summer anywhere. (*It may take a couple of winters).
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Walk on air against your better judgement. Seamus Heaney died six years ago today. His poetry still lives.
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Human beings suffer.They torture one another, .They get hurt and get hard. No poem or play or song .Can fully right a wrong .Inflicted and endured.
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It is difficult at times to repress the thought that history is about as instructive as an abattoir; that Tacitus was right and that peace is merely the desolation left behind after the decisive operations of merciless power.
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“. But while democracy can be periodically delayed,.It can never be permanently defeated. In this truth, in this faith we trust. For while we have our eyes on the future,.History has its eyes on us.”. Amanda Gorman (22) Inauguration Poet.
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It rained when it should have snowed. When we went to gather holly.the ditches were swimming, we were wet.to the knees, our hands were all jags.and water ran up our sleeves. There should have been berries.but the sprigs we brought into the house.gleamed like smashed bottle-glass.
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Winter-evening cold. Our backs might never warm up but our faces.Burned from the hearth-blaze and the hot whiskeys. As green sticks hissed and spat into the ashes.And whatever rampaged out there couldn’t reach us,.Firelit, shuttered, slated and stone-walled.
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Hope is not optimism, which expects things to turn out well, but something rooted in the conviction that there is good worth working for. #CoronaVirusChallenge.
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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.
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Walk on air against your better judgement. Seamus Heaney left us five years ago today. We remember him.
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Remembering Seamus Heaney who died on this day in 2013. Walk on air against your better judgement.
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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.
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By old men standing up to shake my hand.And tell me they were 'sorry for my trouble'. Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest,.Away at school, as my mother held my hand.In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs…. A four-foot box, a foot for every year.
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To have lived it through and now be free to give.Utterance, body and soul—to wake and know.Every time that it’s gone and gone for good, the thing.That nearly broke you.
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Be advised my passport’s green. No glass of ours was ever raised.to toast the Queen.
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Winter-evening cold. Our backs might never warm up but our faces.Burned from the hearth-blaze and the hot whiskeys. As green sticks hissed and spat into the ashes.And whatever rampaged out there couldn’t reach us,.Firelit, shuttered, slated and stone-walled.
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Being with her.Was intimate and helpful, like a cure.You didn’t notice happening.
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Unfazed by light, to make a new beginning.And make a go of it, alive and sinning,.Ourselves again, free-willed again, not bad.
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On Christmas Eve my father would tell us, . “He’s on his way now, coming round Slieve Gallon, if you listen hard maybe you’ll hear the sleigh bells.” . I remember climbing the beech tree at the end of our lane, listening through the frosty air.
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Walk on air against your better judgement. Seamus Heaney left us eight years ago today. We miss him.
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Late August, given heavy rain and sun.For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot. Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was in it.
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History says, Don’t hope.On this side of the grave,.But then, once in a lifetime.The longed-for tidal wave.Of justice can rise up.And hope and history rhyme.
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On the grass when I arrive,.Filling the stillness with life,.But ready to scare off.At the very first wrong move. In the ivy when I leave. It’s you, blackbird, I love. I park, pause, take heed. Breathe. Just breathe.
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Sheer, bright-shining spring, spring as it used to be,.Cold in the morning, but as broad daylight.Swings open, the everlasting sky.Is a marvel to survivors.
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Late August, given heavy rain and sun.For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot . Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was in it.Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for Picking.
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Unfazed by light, to make a new beginning.And make a go of it, alive and sinning,.Ourselves again, free-willed again, not bad. A candle for John Hume. Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam.
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We marked the pitch: four jackets for four goalposts, .That was all. Youngsters shouting their heads off in a field.
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The time you won your town the race.We chaired you through the market-place;.Man and boy stood cheering by,.And home we brought you shoulder-high. Today, the road all runners come,.Shoulder-high we bring you home,.And set you at your threshold down.Townsman of a stiller town 🔵🟡.
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You are neither here nor there,.A hurry through which known and strange things pass.And catch the heart off guard and blow it open. Lá Fhéile Pádraig.#StPatricksDay.
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On the day when.the weight deadens.on your shoulders.and you stumble,.may the clay dance.to balance you. John O'Donohue - Beannacht / Blessing
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Noli timere. Don't be afraid. Remembering Seamus Heaney who died on this day in 2013.
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When all the others were away at Mass.I was all hers as we peeled potatoes. They broke the silence, let fall one by one.Like solder weeping off the soldering iron:.Cold comforts set between us, things to share.Gleaming in a bucket of clean water.
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“My dear brother, you have good stamina. You keep Old roads open by driving on new ones”. Goodbye 2020. Here’s to a new road in 2021, dear followers.
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Between my finger and my thumb.The squat pen rests. I’ll dig with it.
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Between my finger and my thumb .The squat pen rests; snug as a gun. Under my window, a clean rasping sound .When the spade sinks into gravelly ground: .My father, digging. I look down.
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Believe that a farther shore.Is reachable from here. Believe in miracles .And cures and healing wells.
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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. Vicky Phelan RIP.
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