The Frank Skinner Show - Frank Skinner's Poetry Podcast: Seamus Heaney

Episode Date: December 11, 2024

Frank spends a day in Belfast, wallowing in the poetry of Seamus Heaney. The poem referenced are ‘Personal Helicon’ from ‘Death of a Naturalist’ and ‘Limbo’ by Seamus Heaney. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

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I was on tour and doing a gig in Belfast. So my tour manager Omar got in touch with the Seamus Heaney Centre at Queen's University in Belfast. He knows my love of Heaney and I had dropped a few hints that I'd like to go and see what was there and meet some of the people and I did exactly that. We went along, everyone was absolutely fantastic. Everyone really loved poetry. And I could just talk about poetry and poems without people thinking I was a weirdo and that's always lovely. It's like when I go to somewhere like Italy and I can kiss the statues of saints in the street. No one stares. Yeah. So it was brilliant. And Leoncia Flynn was there actually, a poet who I've covered before in these podcasts. And we had a great day. We hung out. We talked Heaney. We talked

poetry in general. We went to a gallery to look at a fabulous and well-known painting of Heaney by the artist Edward Maguire. And then we went into the sort of archive we saw handwritten notes by Seamus Heaney for his translation of the Anglo-Saxon blockbuster Bear Wolf which was published in 1999, his version not the, I mean. And it was just a brilliant day out. And of course, always in my mind was I must do a Seamus Heaney podcast. I think I've backed off it a bit because Heaney is so big and so marvelous and so Irish that I thought maybe it wasn't my place to discuss him. You know what?

He's often called one of the great Irish poets. He's really just one of the great poets, I think. So why narrow it down? So I want to look at a poem from his first collection, in fact, which was called Death of a Naturalist. It was published in 1966. And the poem is called Personal Helicon. Now, Helicon, you may know, is a mountain in Greece, one of these ancient Greek places associated with all sorts of magic and there is a spring which runs along,

under and across that mountain and it is supposedly the source of poetic inspiration. You drink from that spring in order to be a poet. So Personal Helicon suggests that the speaker is going to explain to us where he gets his poetic inspiration. And there's one of those bits where it is dedicated to someone, which I'm always unsure about as I've stated I think previously on these podcasts because it's my poem when I'm always unsure about, as I've stated, I think, previously on these podcasts because it's my poem when I'm reading it. But anyway, it says personal helicon for Michael Longley. Now, Michael Longley was another poet. And it's interesting this because while I was at Queen's University in Belfast, I saw

some typed poems by Seamus Heaney, done on an old-fashioned manual typewriter, and they were his own poems. And the reason he typed them up is he was taking them to a thing called the Belfast Group, which was a group of poets run by the formidable Philip Hobsbawm. And it was one of those groups where poets sat around they read their own poetry and the other poets? Criticized it disgusted etc terrifying So personal helicon wasn't one of the actual typed ones I saw but this is as I say dedicated to Longley, and Michael Longley was another member of the Belfast group,

so he would have been someone else subjected to Philip Hobbs Bones' lashes. Okay, I'm gonna give you just the first stanza. I have to really fight not doing it in an Irish accent, because I've heard Heaney read these poems many times On recordings I should say Heaney in case I didn't mention it was born in 1939 and died in 2013 Anyway, here goes personal helicon for Michael Longley

As a child they could not keep me from wells and old pumps with buckets and windlasses. I love the dark drop, the trapped sky, the smells of waterweed, fungus and dank moss. Now if you've never heard this poem before, when I said as a child they could not keep me from, I think if I'd given you a thousand guesses you probably wouldn't have come up with the word wells. This is a kid really attracted to wells and that's the end of the first line and he goes on into the second and all pumps with buckets and windlasses. Windlasses being that sort of winding mechanism that raises the bucket. Now sharper listeners

amongst you and I know there are many would probably already be thinking, hold on, Helicon was a mountain which contained a spring, which was a source of poetic inspiration, and the young Heaney couldn't be kept from wells. We're going to get some poetic inspiration analogy in this, aren't we? And I think I agree. I think the wells do seem to be his source of inspiration. I love the dark drop, that sort of mystery of it, the frightening but exhilarating sense of plunge and risk you get with a well and indeed with a brilliant poem. The trapped sky, that could be almost a symbol of art, couldn't it? Something which is natural being contained

and reproduced, in this case the sky being reproduced on this tiny circular surface of water in the well. The smells and the line ends there. So we think of what these smells will be of waterweed, fungus and dank moss. So there's a real sense of place here, isn't there? The earth, a sort of earthy authenticity, all of which seems to conjure up Heaney's poetry. I love the dark drop and that whole

exciting adventure that is poetry. As a reader, I must say, as well as a writer. Next stanza. One in a brickyard with a rotted board top. I savored the rich crash when a bucket plummeted down at the end of a rope. So deep you saw no reflection in it. Right, so we had the dark drop of the bucket in the first stanza and now we have the rich crash when a bucket plummeted down at the end of a rope. So this, the way, it's just four lines here, one in a brickyard with a rotted board top,

full stop. So it's almost like a heading. I'm going to tell you about some wells that I really liked I savored the rich crash when a bucket plummeted down at the end of a rope so deep there's a full stop after rope so no it's another thought now so deep you saw no reflection in it so when he's remembering this well the thoughts are coming quite randomly one in a brick yard with a rotted board top that's it full stop I savored the rich crash when a bucket plummeted down at

the end of a rope full stop so deep obviously now talking about the water and talking about the well you saw no reflection in it. So you couldn't see yourself in it. You could see nothing. It was just darkness. So is this another comparison with a poem, this well? One in a brickyard with a rotted board top. So a sort of a mundane surface to begin with. I savored the rich crash when a bucket plummeted down at the end of a rope so deep you saw no reflection in it. So now to the hidden depths.

And again, it's like a poem, isn't it? Maybe when you first read a poem, we've all done this, you think, I can't, there's nothing a poem, isn't it? Maybe when you first read a poem, we've all done this, you think, I can't, there's nothing in this, is that? I don't get it, it seems very basic. And then you read it again, you read it again, and the bucket plummets, and you finally get to the end, and you get the rich crash when you start to actually get it and understand it. So deep you saw no reflection in it. Maybe there's a sense here of Heaney beginning to read poetry. He loved its rich crash and sensed it being so deep, but couldn't maybe at that point find himself or his own life and

environment reflected in the poems he read. Listen, I don't want to drag this comparison because he's too subtle and nuanced to make it a full-on aren't poems like Wells, but it's quite hard to avoid. Next stands a shallow one under a dry stone ditch, fructified like any aquarium. When you dragged out long roots from the soft mulch, a white face hovered over the bottom. So the last one, if you remember, was so deep you saw no reflection in it. This

one a shallow one under a dry stone ditch, fructified like any aquarium. Fructified meaning to bear fruit and it's the way stuff grows on things in an aquarium. If you put a little It's the way stuff grows on things in an aquarium. If you put a little deep sea diver at the bottom, you'll see that stuff that grows on them. And I think here, a shallow one, but bearing fruit, again, gives you the idea of the surprise and the secrets of a poem. When you dragged out long roots from the soft mulch, so when you cleared

away some of the weeds, and he's always in the land, Heaney. He writes about these naturally mummified bodies that are found in peat bogs, and it's like he's attracted to that because he's almost of the soil Heaney himself when you dragged out long roots from the soft mulch a white face hovered over the bottom and I think the white face hovered is his own childish face looking down this well but also maybe the spirit of the place, something else that Heaney's always trying to capture, the spirit of the place that he grew up. Another stanza, the penultimate in fact. Others had echoes, gave back your own call, with a clean new music in it, and one was scaresome, for there, out of ferns and tall fox-gloves,

a rat slapped across my reflection. Oh, you can feel the shock of it. So, that white face before seems to be Heaney, the reflection in the water at the bottom of the shallow Well, and it's the poet and his presence in the poem if you remember before The first well was so deep you saw no reflection in it in the next one A white face hovered over the bottom His presence in the poetry seems to be growing if we take this well poem comparison. And I'm never quite sure in this poem,

if I'm gonna be honest. If the poems that the well seem to somehow represent are the poetry of other writers that inspired Heaney as a child. A well is, remember, a source from which things are drawn, or whether they are his own poems, his own juvenileia in which his own reflection and his own individual voice slowly become clearer and the place where he grew up becomes more and more present. Anyway he's speaking of these significant wells. Others had echoes gave back your own call with a clean new music in it. So now he's in this poem but the voice seems to be enriched by poetry itself and its tradition and its structures and there seems to be new thoughts now coming

from old stories. I remember I wrote my autobiography and I wrote family stories about me that had been told and retold by me and my family members for years. But when I wrote them down I started to feel a new significance in them and saw a pattern across my life. A real sense that by the time I was eight I was more or less who I am now. I was more or less formed. And I think this is what is happening here. Others had echoes, gave back your own call. So yourself, your voice, your language, your writing, with a clean new music in it.

So there's something about the way an echo in a well sounds like a different voice. And maybe when you speak and think and express yourself in a poem, that comes back like clean new music. Something that was in you you didn't even know was in you. Okay, and one was scarce. Scarce a great word, a very sort ofenish sort of, most people would say frightening, but scaresome is much better. Was scaresome for there, out of ferns and tall foxgloves, there's always this flora

and fauna around these wells, always totally tied to the land and the environment. A rat slapped across my reflection, and that slapped is perfect for a rat suddenly appearing in the water at the bottom of the well. I think it suggests some of the terrors maybe of reading and certainly of writing poetry. I think that's what he's getting at. I want to just look at the word scare some because I once listened to a Don Patterson radio program about a Hine poem. And he said, you should always check out any words

you think feels unusual because Hine is so deeply, deeply engrossed in language and the history of language and other languages, that there's always liable to be a little Easter egg going on there, something a bit secret. So you find yourself making guesses and interpretations that maybe you think would be too far-fetched with another poet, but Haney's so tuned in to words and what they contain or potentially contain that you're always on the lookout. And that word scaresome. I sort of investigated scare and one of the things it refers to is you use it to get game out of shelter when you want to work that there are p game out of shelter. When you want to work, that there are pheasants or whatever and you want to bring them to light, to reveal them. And I

think that's a good word for this, isn't it? And one was scaresome for there out of ferns and tall fox gloves a rat slapped across my reflection as if this animal had been disturbed, as if it's been unearthed, as if it's been revealed. And I think it's about the self-revelation of reading and certainly of writing poetry, of something, maybe something rat-like and dark and something that you've never quite faced up to being revealed, being scared out of its hiding place. Last stanza and now having looked back on it on this child who could not be kept from wells we now get the speaker as he is today commenting on his relationship with Wells now and how it has really had to end.

Now to pry into roots, to finger slime, to stare big-eyed narcissus into some spring is beneath all adult dignity. I rhyme to see myself To set the darkness echoing. So now to prying to roots, to finger slime, all these things he told us he did when he was a kid, to stare big-eyed Narcissus, Narcissus, you'll know if you've done your Greek mythology, was so in love with himself that he saw his reflection in water, just like this child did that Heaney is telling us about, and completely fell in love with himself. And maybe when he talks about the white face hovering over the bottom of the And maybe when he talks about the white face

hovering over the bottom of the well, when he talks about the well giving back his own call with a clean new music in it, it shows maybe that his early poetry was very much about him, him. He was at the center of it. And now as he's matured, maybe he doesn't feel so comfortable being a big eyed narcissus. To stare big eyed narcissus into some spring

is beneath all adult dignity. And now it's interesting that he's used the word spring to remind us that this poem is called personal helicon where that spring was which was the source of poetic inspiration and these things he's staring into seem to be like the I think it's called the spring of hypocrine on Mount helicon this Pelican this inspirational body of water So he feels that he's been staring into that it has inspired him and has created his poetry but now To pry into roots to finger slime to stare big-eyed narcissus into some spring is beneath all adult dignity I

Rhyme to see myself to set the darkness echoing. So he doesn't feel he can look into wells anymore. He has replaced it with poetry and he's making it quite clear now it's not just us thinking oh wells and, they sound a bit, but no, straight up. I mean, calling it personal helicon was definitely pushing us in that direction, but now I rhyme to see myself. I don't look into the water. I look into poetry and my poetry. I rhyme to see myself to set the darkness echoing so to get back his own core with a clean new music in it like he did in the echo of that well he now gets from poetry that's

where his voice sweetens becomes deeper more interesting becomes fresh and new to him. That's Personal Helicon by Seamus Heaney. It's... you know at the end of these podcasts when I say go and read more of this poet it's fantastic. You can almost read any Heaney. It's all so so good. You know what's great about ambition? You can't see it. Some things look ambitious, but looks can be deceiving. For example, a runner could be training for a marathon, or they could be late for the bus.

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Visit scotiabank.com slash right-sized savings for full details. I'm gonna read you one of them from 1972, and it's called Limbo. And one of the reasons I chose this was on that beautiful day at Queens University in Belfast, we watched some old black and white footage of Heaney from Irish TV and in one of them he recited this poem, Limbo, and it was

great to see him. They put him like by the side of the sea and stuff to give it a bit of authenticity and appropriateness and I loved it anyway I loved it loved it. I'm going to give you the first stanza of this and the next line and a half which is essentially well you'll see why. Fisherman at Ballyshannan netted an infant last night along with the salmon, an illegitimate spawning, a small one thrown back to the waters. Now it feels like a news item doesn't it? And I understand that Heaney actually did hear this story on the news. Fishermen at Bally Shannon, obviously a coastal town in Ireland,

netted an infant last night along with the salmon. And Shannon and salmon is a slight slant rhyme there and netted an infant. Remember these are fishermen. So they actually what actually happened is the fishermen found a dead baby In their nets, but this whole news thing It makes it sound like one of those local news where everything is a slight pond and everything is light-hearted Fishermen at Ballyshan are netted an infant last night already. Oh, they netted an infant, I see.

Along with the salmon. You can almost hear a chockle if this wasn't such a terrible story. An illegitimate spawning. Now then it gets a bit darker, I think, because spawning doesn't sound like a human activity. It's what you normally apply to fish, for example, and to say an illegitimate spawning seems to remove this baby's humanity

slightly. And the fact that it's tied so close to illegitimate, and I think it's fair to say that when this was written in 1972, maybe the attitude to illegitimacy was still a bit unkind. So an illegitimate spawning sounds very dismissive and judgmental and it goes on to the next Danza. A small one thrown back to the waters. That to me again has a local new semi-comedy thing to it. When you're fishing if you get a little fish you just throw it back in, it's not worth keeping and that seems to have happened with this baby. Now I can't imagine that the newsreader was actually this dismissive but there would have been an element, a shadow, a hint of this I think hint of this I think in the way the story was discussed. So we get that, we get a sort of official voice of how one responds to this illegitimate child having been thrown into the water, a small one thrown back to the waters. But then we get the voice of the poet and everything seems to change.

So I'll continue this second stanza and complete the third. But I'm sure as she stood in the shallows docking him tenderly, Till the frozen knobs of her wrists were dead as the gravel. He was a minnow with hooks tearing her open. So suddenly, it's not so judgmental, suddenly we are going back to the scene of the mother actually putting the baby into the water. And there's no throwing, it is not a small one thrown back to the waters. This time she stood in the shallows, docking him tenderly.

Docking him suggests putting him in the water and taking him out of the water. A real reticence, a desperate not wanting to do it. And suddenly this becomes deeply tragic, this poem, and that sort of local news-like metaphor about a small one thrown back is now completely shaken, that easy metaphor if you like, is shaken by the reality of this image and the compassion of it. But I'm sure, and he wasn't there, the speaker is not claiming he was, but I'm sure as she stood in the shallows we

know immediately he's talking about the mother because some part of us from the beginning of this is thinking about the mother and what that must have been like despite the slightly dismissive approach of this news voice that Heaney has either created or reinterpreted in some way. But I'm sure as she stood in the shallows, hear those shhh sounds in that, I'm sure as she stood in the shallows, you can almost hear the lapping water, can't you, on that night. I'm sure as she stood in the shallows docking him tenderly till the frozen knobs of her wrists were dead as the gravel. He was a minnow with hooks tearing her open. Now she's docking him tenderly as I said it

feels like a real reluctance to do what she feels she has to do here. But also it sounds like a baptism, doesn't it? And all these images of fishermen and being netted, it all is very New Testament. I will make you a fisher of men. St. Peter, all these characters who were fishermen originally. And it's shot through with religion, I think, this poem, even though what she's doing would be regarded,

obviously, as the ultimate sin of infanticide. obviously as the ultimate sin of infanticide. By the way the fish was a symbol used by the early Christian Church and some believe, I think this is less believed than it was probably when this poem was written, some believe that it was used as a secret sign the the fish, on walls and stuff, scratched on trees, to show there were Christians around, hidden somewhere near. And I think the informal baptism of this minnow, this baby, feels like a secret Christian ceremony. The baby gets a baptism thanks to the mother that maybe the official Roman Catholic Church would have denied it. Heney grew up a Catholic by the way. Also, and I'm chucking this in because I think

Heney would know these things because he was so clever. In ancient Greece, the fish was a symbol of female fertility, suggesting the importance and potency of the female. The Catholic Church obviously loves fertility, but not among the unmarried, which you would imagine included the young mother who was with her baby that night. Anyway, look, back to the poem. But I'm sure as she stood in the shallows, ducking him tenderly, till the frozen knobs

of her wrists were dead as the gravel. He was a minnow with hooks tearing her open. Now you know what I was telling you about if there's something suspicious in a Heaney poem you think oh he's he's up to something here isn't he so I did it I went uh I went searching there's something about this. If you were talking about someone holding their hands in cold water for a long time, I think your tendency, and obviously he needs too good a poet to go to a first thought, you could argue, but would you say, till the frozen knobs of her wrists were dead as the gravel?

Wouldn't you say fingers? Isn't that the obvious thing that gets cold? A knob. So I looked into the knobs of her wrists. Now bear with me, this may be ridiculous, but I'm basing it on the fact that Heaney was such a great linguist. So I looked up that knob that you get on your wrist, that little lump

on the outside of the wrist, which the bone is called the PC form, P-I-S-I-F-O-R-M, and that comes from the Greek P-SON, which means P, because it looks a bit like you've got a P I guess under your skin. In old English, which Heaney was particularly fond of, that became peas, as in peas pudding, if you like. So peas was old English for pea. And then in middle English a bit later bear with me this will be over quickly but I blame Heaney in Middle English because it was called peas a pea was called a peas they assumed that that was probably because it ended in in an s sound a plural not a singular so they thought it meant P's the way we use it they

thought it meant the plural of P's so you could say when it was peace in old English it was singular and then it was mistaken for plural and then it became singular again as P and I don't know if you followed that but I just wondered bear with me don't condemn me for this this mother was a single woman and then she became by a mistake a plural because she had this child, so there was two of them. And then she became single again, just like this word, which was peas for a single pea, mistaken for a plural, and then returned to a single when it became pea. Now, that might be the most stupid thing you've ever heard said about poetry,

but if it's Heaney it's possible because that's the kind of thing he would have liked and I can't see why he singles out the knobs of her wrists when he talks about the nomming-ness till the frozen knobs of her wrists were dead as the gravel. I think that's an odd image if there isn't something deeper going on because fingers go numb, the knob of your wrist you can never really feel anyway, it's bone. Of course he might be referring to the frozen knobs of her wrist to suggest that she's

held this baby so long in her reluctance to let it go that the cold has slowly traveled along her fingers and knuckles along the backs of her hands to her wrists. Yes, that could be it, I suppose. And it's a bit less outlandish. Okay. He was a minnow with hooks tearing her open. So he was a minnow, a small fish. So it feels like, oh, are we going back to a small one thrown back and we're going to that kind of attitude to this illegitimate baby.

But now this is a much truer metaphor, isn't it? The speaker thinks a lot deeper than the newsreader. He was a minnow with hooks. Fish obviously do get hooks in them, but not minnows, they're too small. But this one has emotional hooks tearing her open. So the anguish of this terrible, desperate act of this young mother. One assumes she's young, but also it's a

childbirth image I think. He was a minnow with hooks tearing her open, especially if it's a young girl. Just two stanzas to go. Still on the subject of this young mother. She waded in under the sign of her cross. He was hauled in with the fish. Now limbo will be a cold glitter of souls through some far briny zone. Even Christ's palms on, smart and cannot fish there. And so it ends this poem. She waded in under the sign of her cross. This reminds me of when St Peter wades in towards the boat, towards Jesus.

But maybe I'm just getting too New Testament crazy now. She waded in under the sign of her cross now this could mean the cross she has to bear you know that image she's carrying this child physically carrying but also she's carrying this torment this shame this panic this fear so she waded in under the sign of her cross. Also maybe she crossed herself. That is not out of the question for this young Irish girl and it gives it also a bit more of a religious ceremony, a bit more of a baptism feel to it. He was hauled in with the fish. Now limbo will be a cold glitter of souls

through some far briny zone. So he was hauled in with the fish. That's what happened. We've gone back to the beginning to that fisherman at Ballyshan and netted an infant last night along with the salmon. He was hauled in with the fish. Now limbo will be a cold glitter of souls through some far briny zone. Limbo, you may or may not know, is a theory about, it was the official teaching of the Catholic Church until very recently, that unbaptized babies can't go to heaven because they're unbaptized, but they can't go to hell because they're innocent, they have not sinned, and so they go to this place, Limbo, which is a sort of weird non place, a sort of no man's land and as he describes it here now Limbo will be a cold glitter of souls through some far briny zone so

he's making Limbo this state that the unbaptized remaining for eternity is making it sound like the place that the baby actually died a cold glitter of souls through some far briny zone briny as of the sea of salt water salty so this baby is destined because it is unbaptized to go to limbo and to remain there in a sort of a no place, as a sort of a no person. But, the last two lines, even Christ's palms, unhealed, smart and cannot fish there. So even Christ's palms, the palms of his hands, unhealed, you know Christ had nails knocked through his hands, they are unhealed for some reason. The wound remains open in this line. Even Christ's palms un healed smart and cannot fish there. We've been reminded of the saltiness of the sea by the description of limbo which is briny

and this baby this innocent baby is going to go to limbo even Christ can't help him because Christ's palms unhealed, smart because of the salt in the water into the wound, smart and cannot fish there, so even Jesus can't help this poor child. And everything about that as a reader thinks no, no, no, this baby, it can't go to limbo, can it? It can't go to a no place as a no person. And surely, whether you believe in Jesus or not, in the world of this poem, surely Christ can help the baby. But the church says the unbaptized must go to limbo. So even Christ shouldn't be challenging this big important official Catholic teaching, if you know what I mean.

And I think what we've got here is official teaching, just like that official news reader had a slightly dismissive and judgmental attitude. An illegitimate spawning was the phrase he used. I think now we get a feeling that the church is like that. Now limbo will be a cold glitter of souls through some far briny zone, and it's inevitable, not might be or could be, it will be a cold glitter of souls through some far briny zone, a desperate place for this poor baby, and even Christ's palms on heel, smart and cannot fish there. That's church teaching, but we have been led by Heaney in this. To think of this, even if we accept that teaching, this

baby feels baptized to us as she stood in the shallows docking him tenderly. She waded in under the sign of her cross. He was hauled in with the fish, makes him feel like one of those souls gathered by the apostles, the former fishermen. And so I think we revolt against this ending and I think he wants us to. Maybe Christ's palms are unhealed because he continues to experience and empathize with human suffering whereas the Irish establishment as represented by the News and the Roman Catholic Church seem to have maybe lost a bit of basic compassion. Look, those are two, I hope you agree, fabulous poems by a fabulous

poet. They're all the richer for me for that day I spent in Belfast with the people from the Seamus Heaney Centre, but I hope they're pretty rich to you. If you haven't read Heaney, I mean, then I'm giving you his work as a gift. Obviously you have to pay for it, etc. But it's very, very special. Go Heaney. Thank you for listening to Frank Skinner's Poetry Podcast. Don't forget to follow so you never miss an episode. See you next week. Stay safe on roads this winter. Michelin driving expert and former professional race car driver Carl Nadu shares his tips on winter driving and why use winter tires. Winter tires are essential for safe driving in conditions like snow, slush and ice. While brakes stop the wheel turning, it is the tires that bring your car to a full stop. Ensure you have four quality winter tires such as

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