Irish Poetry by Aleksandra Klescheva 1 MA

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Irish Poetry by Aleksandra Klescheva, 1 MA

Modern Irish Poetry An explosion of talent and publishing has been one of t consequences of free secondary school education introduced in t 1960 s, allowing many southern poets (e. g. Thom Mc. Carthy, John Ennis, Dennis O’Driscoll, Nuala Ní Dhomhnai to come to wider notice.

● ● The Arts Council of Ireland (Chomhairle Ealaíon hÉireann in Irish) is a government funded body whi promotes art in the Republic of Ireland «Literature is an integral part of people's lives

● Seamus Justin Heaney, (13 April 1939 – 30 August 2013) was an Irish poet, playwright, translator and lecturer. He received the 1995 Nobel Prize in Literature.

“. . . that rare thing, a poet rated highly by critics and academics ye popular with 'the common reader. . . ” Blake Morrison, “Seamus Heaney “. . . the poet who has shown the finest art in presenting a coherent vision of Ireland, past and present. . . ” Richard Murphy, The New York Revie

The poet sought to weave the ongoing Irish troubles into a broader historical frame embracing the general human situation in the books Wintering Out (1973) and North (1975).

Heaney and Brodsky

Иосиф Бродский Шеймусу Хини (1990) Я проснулся от крика чаек в Дублине. На рассвете их голоса звучали как души, которые так загублены, что не испытывают печали. Облака шли над морем в четыре яруса, точно театр навстречу драме, набирая брайлем постскриптум ярости

Audenesque Seamus Heaney, 1939 - 2013 in memory of Joseph Brodsky Joseph, yes, you know the beat. Wystan Auden’s metric feet Marched to it, unstressed and stressed, Laying William Yeats to rest. Therefore, Joseph, on this day, Yeats’s anniversary, (Double-crossed and death-marched date, January twenty-eight). . .

Seamus Heaney’s ‘Digging’ Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun. Under my window a clean rasping sound When the spade sinks into gravelly ground: My father, digging. I look down Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds Bends low, comes up twenty years away Stooping in rhythm through potato drills Where he was digging. The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft Against the inside knee was levered firmly. He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep To scatter new potatoes that we picked Loving their cool hardness in our hands. By God, the old man could handle a spade, Just like his old man. My grandfather could cut more turf in a d Than any other man on Toner's bog. Once I carried him milk in a bottle Corked sloppily with paper. He straighten To drink it, then fell to right away Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods Over his shoulder, digging down and dow For the good turf. Digging. The cold smell of potato mold, the squelc slap Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge Through living roots awaken in my head. But I've no spade to follow men like them Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests. I'll dig with it.

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