Conference tallis::celt

    Yes!
    
    Shaun

>   Any Heaney lovers out there?

I presume you mean lovers of his books?  The prize is supposed
to be worth over 1,000,000 dollars!

Hands-up anyone who's read anything the man's produced?

                        James.

    I've got his 'New Selected Poems - 1966-1987' right in front of me now.
    I was very pleased he won the prize cos his poetry is very good. Though
    I didn't like his 'The Haw Lantern' for which he won the Whitbread Book
    of the Year Award (poetry section) in 1987. In fact, I still don't like
    it!
    
    His poems about the troubles are pretty excellent though.
    
    Shaun$i'm_off_home_now, good bye

    For the Leaving Certificate (final examination in secondary school) in
    Ireland in 1979, we studied one of his peoms about scarabs.  A scarab
    is a sacred dung-beetle of ancient Egypt, just in case you didn't know. 
    Anyway, the poem was meant to be an analogy for the situation in the
    North.  Subsequently, I met Seamus in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and he
    seemed like a very decent, down to earth chap.  It is a tremendous
    honour that he received this award and the very best of luck to him.
    
    Regards,  Ken Hanly

AAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGH!  NO!  PLEASE!  H'anus is about to subject another
conference to his poetry... sob, etc.

Chris.

	That makes it 4 to Ireland

	George Bernard Shaw
	W.B. Yeats
	Samuel Beckett
	Seamus Heaney

	Not bad for a small off-shore island? (dare we make the un-pc comment 
	that Seamus the Famous is the first mick in the above crew!)

	Pat 

    No finer poet today than Seamus Heaney. The past is his favourite
    country, and even when he's writing about the present, he's also
    in the past. 
    
    Here's my favourite Heaney poem, a typical Heaney treatment of 
    a typical Heaney theme and rightly one of his most popular poems:
    
    
    Digging
    
    Between my finger and 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
    
    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 cut more turf in a day
    Than any other man on Toner's bog.
    Once I carried him milk in a bottle
    Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
    To drink it, then fell to right away
    Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
    Over his shoulder, going down and down
    For the good turf. Digging.
    
    The cold smell of potato mould, the squelsh and 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.
    
    Beneath my finger and my thumb
    The squat pen rests.
    I'll dig with it.
    

    He can't touch Pam Ayres.
    
    
    CHARLEY

> He can't touch Pam Ayres.

Because he's gay?

Did anyone see the article "our man on the street" Eamonn Dunphy wrote
on Heaney yesterday?  Fairly virulant stuff!

                           James.

    Yes, I saw it, James. It was the usual begrudgery that one comes
    to expect of the Independant stable. Not only did our heroic
    soccer correspondent lay into Heaney, on the grounds that he
    couldn't understand his work (no surprise there), but so did
    Declan Lynch, who started by asking "May I be the first to
    officially begrudge Seamus Heaney"? I expect he was trying to
    be funny, although there were no other obvious clues in the
    rest of the article.
    
    This is par for the course for the Sunday Blueshirt, and its
    stablemate, the Irish Blueshirt. Their premise is that way to
    sell newspapers is by picking begrudging any example of success
    in or related to Ireland or the Irish. This is a successful
    strategy, because there is a large percentage of Irish people
    who have an inferiority complex, and the Blueshirt newspapers
    feed that. For instance, the only other time I picked up
    a Blueshirt newspaper last week, Thursday, I was greeted with
    a virulant attack on Michael Flatley for "getting too big for
    his boots". The article was written entirely from the producers'
    point of view, and as I expected, I had to go to the Irish Times
    to get both sides of the story.
    
    In my view, the Blueshirt papers are just oversized tabloids.
    Presumably the journalists who write such rubbish recognise that
    it's rubbish. Or do they?

    I hate to say this, but I don't think that Seamus Heaney is half the
    poet he's cracked up to be. I'm afraid that in my opinion, his work is
    only viewed as "brilliant" by the sort of people who "appreciate"
    modern art and modern architecture. Frankly, I regard such things as
    very much "Emperor's New Clothes", and believe that there is a culture
    around this stuff which is a self-perpetuating club of people all
    telling each other how great this stuff is, and never daring to turn
    round and say that its ugly, or dreadful, or incomprehensible, for fear
    of being branded as philistines, or ignorant and uncultured.
    
    That said, Seamus is clearly a leader in his field, one I freely admit
    that I don't appreciate, and he deserves all congratulations on his
    award. "Begrudging" it is churlish and small-minded.
    
    Cheers, Laurie.

    not quite the same subject but the BBC is running a season of `'classic'
    plays on Saturday nights on BBC2. Last Saturday night they showed
    O'Casey's `Shadow of a Gunman'. What a cast!, Kenneth Branagh, Stephen
    Rea, Bronagh Gallagher and the guy who played Adolphus Grigson stole
    the show, (wish I could remember his name....). 
    
    a cracker of a play....
    
    Ray....

	Laurie,

	You amaze me! Heaney's poetry is, in my opinion:

	- accessible
	- lyrical
	- formal in structure 
	- profound in its treatment of THE important events in our lives.

	Have you read:

	Death of a Naturalist
	North
	Field Work
	Station Island

	The poems in these collections are in no way obscure (well not to me, 
	at least). 

	His translations of Dante and of Buile Suibhne are magnificent 	
	technical achievements to which no Emperor's tailor could lay claim.

	Sweeping statements about the modern arts are often made by those who 
	have no interest in the arts themselves but 'know what they like'. 
	Fair enough. I know little or nothing about rock music, don't like it, 
	but don't question their sincerity or talent  

	I believe that the sales figures achieved by Heaney over the last 
	twenty years gives the lie to your assertion that a small cabal praise 
	one another's works and puff reputations. 

	Pat.

	Who has been celebrating all weekend the recognition of a tarrific 
	poet!

> Who has been celebrating all weekend the recognition of a tarrific 
> poet!

You forgot the smilie I think ;-).

I agree with Brendan D. about the Sunday Independent, but the problem
is that the choice of a decent 100% Irish produced Sunday newspaper is
sadly very limited since the death of the Irish Press group.  If there
was a good alternative I think many, many people would gladly jump the
Independent ship (what I really miss about the Sunday Press was the
cryptic crossword). 

Heaney was asked on the radio this morning what he thought of Dunphy's
hatchet job.  He didn't bother wasting his breath trying to rebuke it.

                          James.

    I'm with Pat on this one. When I first read Seamus Heaney it was
    because he had won the Whitbread Prize, and latter the Observer Prize,
    for the Haw Lantern......I thought it was crap!
    
    Latter, when a friend bought me a collection of his poetry (even though
    I distictly asked for Philip Larkin) I begrudgingly read it. I was
    surprised to find that his work was very good...very bloody good
    actualy and have since maintained this - even though I still think the
    Haw Lantern is crap.
    
    Art - of any form - is a personal thing. To me a good painting is
    judged by whether I like it or not....for example I think that the Sun
    Flowers by Van Gogh is bolox yet his self portraits are excellent...i'm
    sure an art connosieur would choke at my comments.
    
    Shaun

	Whilst I agree with the sentiments about the Sunday Independent, I 
	do think that Heaney's poetry is a case of the Emperor's New 
	Clothes (still if he can convince enough fools to make him rich!).

	The bloody stuff doesn't even rhyme for God's sake. I've given him 
	a 'dig' out here to get it to rhyme.

Digging						Digging
    
Between my finger and thumb			Between my finger and thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.		The squat pen rests; snug as 
						a bottle of rum.
    
Under my window, a clean rasping sound		Under my window, a clean rasping
						sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:	When the spade sinks into 
						gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down			My father, digging. I look down
						at how he might frown.
    
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds	Till his straining rump among 
						the flowerbed
Bends low, comes up twenty years away		Bends low, comes up twenty years
 						ahead
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills	Stooping in rhythm through 
						potato drills
Where he was digging.				Where he was digging, no frills.

    
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft	The coarse boot nestled on the 
						lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.	Against the inside knee was 
						levered firmly aft.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright 	He rooted out tall tops, buried 
	edge deep				the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked		To scatter new potatoes that 
						we picked to keep
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.	Loving their cool hardness in 
						our hands.
						Their eyes in untidy bands.

    
By God, the old man could handle a spade.	By God, the old man could 
						handle a spade.
Just like his old man.				Just like his old man, and 
						Annie, his maid.

    
My grandfather cut more turf in a day		My grandfather cut more turf in
						a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.		Than any other man could cut
						hay.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle		Once I carried him milk in a 
						bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up	Corked sloppily with paper. He
						threatened to throttle,
To drink it, then fell to right away		To drink it, then fell to right
						away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods	Nicking and slicing neatly, 
						heaving clay
Over his shoulder, going down and down		Over his shoulder, going down
						and down
For the good turf. Digging.			For the good turf. Digging. The
						clown.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelsh 	The cold smell of potato mould, 
	and slap				the squelsh and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge		Of soggy peat, the curt cuts 
						of a flap
Through living roots awaken in my head.		Through living roots awaken in
						my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.	But I've no spade to follow 
						men who are dead.
    
Beneath my finger and my thumb			Beneath my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.				The squat pen is dumb.
I'll dig with it.				I'll dig with it.
						What a crock of shit.
    

re .16

	Don't give up the day job !

Bernie.

    RE: .16
    
    That's exactly my point. When I was at school we were taught that there
    are three rules for poetry:
    
    1) It must rhyme.
    2) It must scan.
    3) It must make sense.
    
    Random punctuation, capital letters, and line breaks/white-space do not
    make a piece of prose into a poem, no matter how clever that prose is.
    Seamus Heaney writes well, succinctly and descriptively, but in my
    experience, most of his work fails on the first two counts. I used the
    phrase "Emperor's New Clothes" because there is a veritable army of
    cogniscenti out there whom, having been fooled themselves, are busy
    preaching the gospel of whatever it is they have redefined, be it
    architecture, sculpture, paintings or poetry.
    
    I'm happy to put my hand up in the air and admit that I believe that
    99.9% of modern "art", architecture and "progressive" literature is
    complete and utter crap. What's more, I don't care if the "clever" ones
    look down their noses and sneer at me!
    
    Cheers, Laurie.

 
>    That's exactly my point. When I was at school we were taught that there
>    are three rules for poetry:
> 
>    1) It must rhyme.
>    2) It must scan.
>    3) It must make sense.
 
	I think that you may be confusing verse with poetry. 

	.16 illustrates my point :-)


>    Random punctuation, capital letters, and line breaks/white-space do not
>    make a piece of prose into a poem, no matter how clever that prose is.
>    Seamus Heaney writes well, succinctly and descriptively, but in my
>    experience, most of his work fails on the first two counts.

	Heaney is renowned for his use of internal and half-rhyme and has 
written a large number of sonnets that scan perfectly. I will look again to 
see if he commits the other mortal sins that have offended your sensibility. I 
cannot recall quirky punctuation.

>                                                             I used the
>    phrase "Emperor's New Clothes" because there is a veritable army of
>    cogniscenti out there whom, having been fooled themselves, are busy
>    preaching the gospel of whatever it is they have redefined, be it
>    architecture, sculpture, paintings or poetry.
 
	I wouldn't deny for a moment that there are as many charlatans in the 
arts as there are in business or computing. In my opinion, Heaney is not one 
of these.

>    I'm happy to put my hand up in the air and admit that I believe that
>    99.9% of modern "art", architecture and "progressive" literature is
>    complete and utter crap. What's more, I don't care if the "clever" ones
>    look down their noses and sneer at me!
 
	There is a serious point here about the vocabulary that the arts use 
and its accessibility to the uninitiated. However, most complex human activity 
has developed a vocabulary which may not be immediately decipherable by those 
who are uninterested in the subject and are uninclined  to devote time to 
acquiring the vocabulary.
 
	I am not an engineer or a scientist by training therefore I don't feel 
competent to judge the value of research in these areas. It seems, however, 
that in the English speaking world, people wear their ignorance of the arts as 
a badge of honour. "Good God, man, my son is reading poetry! How am I going to 
toughen him up!"

	Pat

  

    Well said Pat....sounds like an Audens introdcution to contemporary
    verse.
    
    
    Shaun

    Oh and I forgot to add.....
    
    Poetry is not a science and thus cannot be described by rules and
    regulations. Laurie's 'rules of poetry' do sound more like 'rules of
    verse' yet neither do I follow. A poem, in any shape or form, is to
    convey an emotion (at least since the rennaisance).....and one does not
    descibe emotions by scientific laws.
    
    It is in fact this academic view of poetry that has restrained it for
    so long in history....
    
    Shaun

    I wish to take nothing away from Seamus Heaney, but I do subscribe to
    Laurie's point of view. I have only read the few fragments of Heaney's
    work which have been posted in recent days, I am quite prepared to
    accept that he has made a contribution appropriate to becoming a Nobel
    prizewinner.
    Laurie's point is taht a lot of modern poetry is simply bad prose and I
    would agree. In fact what I have read of modern poetry is so difficult
    to read because it has so little form that I give up. With more formal
    verse at least one could rely on structure to give clues to the
    content.
    This is not restricted to the written word. There was a piece premiered
    on "The Last Night of the Proms" and it was rubbish, even some of the
    audience were booing. But there were still people prepared to gush
    about it. Amazing.
    
    Andrew

    I cast my vote for Evan Boland...her book 'Outside History' is wonderful.
    
    Dorian

                                  BRIEF WILDE

PA   10/17/95 2:20 AM
Copyright 1995 PA News.

       Dublin has its first major public memorial to Oscar Wilde - a 
stained glasswindow in his city centre home, unveiled to mark the 141st 
anniversary this week of the writer's birth.

                         *********************************

                                The Translators

WP   10/16/95 11:00 PM
By Amy E. Schwartz

       One of the more satisfying details about the winner of this year's
Nobel Prize in Literature, Seamus  Heaney, was a passing mention that the
Irish poet and Harvard professor had paid his dues to literature  in one of
the ways least noticed outside the tiny fraternity of poets but most honored
within it. By  coincidence, the new U.S. poet laureate, Robert Hass, was
ushered into his one-year appointment a few  days later amid plaudits for
having performed the same invisible, much needed service to literature: Both
Heaney and Hass have done their share of translating foreign poets into
English.

      Translation of literature and poetry, like translation under any
circumstances, is almost comically  unselfish work. At best a decent literary
translator gets half a reviewer's sentence ("The novel, in  such-and-such's
able translation, occasionally drags . . .") And yet good poets have
traditionally  considered it part of their job description, along with
sponsoring new poets to prominence. Another recent  Nobel winner, Joseph
Brodsky, owed some of his initial visibility in English to the exertions of
W. H.  Auden; Heaney has done versions of Sophocles and of some of the
ancient Irish bards.

     These past few years have been rich ones for new translations by
well-regarded literary figures;  another much-rewarded if not Nobeled poet,
Richard Wilbur, is best known for modern and surprisingly  stage-friendly
renditions of the difficult charms of Moliere and Racine. Two years ago, in a
festive  retranslation of Dante's "Inferno," 19 well-known poets each took a
canto and performed them as a  marathon reading in New York. It so happens
that Heaney did the first canto, Hass the last.

     Great ages of translation usually coincide with high tides of cultural
and linguistic confidence, when  nations sail out into foreign-language
waters and bring home new literatures into the language like  bounty. That
kind of confidence is sometimes taken as its exact opposite by critics who
complain -- as  now -- when literary resources seem to be going
disproportionately to writers from subcultures. Sometimes  these writers are
engaging in actual translation, sometimes in the equivalent exercise of
trying to write  their private, previously undescribed ethnic experiences
into the language of the mainstream so others  can get a chance to experience
it directly. The criticism of such efforts, the mutterings about literary
 balkanization, miss the crucial second step in this process, the one that
distinguishes it from simple  spoils-seeking -- the bringing back of new
riches to a culture that knows it's capacious enough to absorb  them.

     The Elizabethans were great translators; poets sometimes described them
in the same florid terms  used for the explorers and pirates who were hauling
back shiploads of more tangible exotica. It's ironic  that the notion that we
live in an era of cultural crisis and fragmentation has taken such firm hold
at a  moment of such generosity, when this kind of ingathering is going ahead
robustly on every side, from the  popular sales of ethnic authors like Amy
Tan and Oscar Hijuelos to the more highbrow attention to such  folks as Bill
Blair, founder of the regional Center for the Study of Southern Culture.
Blair recently got one  of the coveted Charles Frankel Prizes, a top award of
the National Endowment for the Humanities, at a  White House ceremony that
honored a lineup of cultural figures selected by the arts and humanities
 endowments. And it's true that even the foes of these endowments have
displayed a certain appreciation  for this kind of work, sparing literary
fellowships alone among the categories of arts grants to individuals.

     The contradiction isn't all that surprising if you consider that the
standard rap on academic literary  criticism is that it looks relentlessly
inward, splitting technical hairs in language too jargon laden for the
 outsider to penetrate. By that measure, translation is an endeavor that
pushes things in the exact  opposite direction, straining for greater
intelligibility, for a wider audience, for a new generation of  readers.

     Nor are the benefits of such work purely literary. The writers' group
PEN, which among other things  keeps track of writers jailed for their work,
recognized the power in this kind of broadening activity earlier  this year
when it began bringing out in translation what is hoped to be a series of
volumes of banned  writers -- in the first case, a slim book of Burmese short
stories by six writers now or intermittently in  prison for having written
them. Though short, the volume has a double charm for a reader with any
 interest in the efforts of writers to think freely -- first, of opening up a
whole new and unfamiliar world  through this string of acute sensibilities;
second, of knowing that by reading them in faraway America one  is giving
these imprisoned writers exactly what they fought for and most crave, a
chance to communicate  across miles and years.

     Even if dedicated anarchist types on the Internet succeed in the
frequently promised project of  creating a "universal archive of banned
books" -- thus, they say, killing the idea of single-government  censorship
forever -- they'll still need something that goes beyond technology: the
quiet servants of  literature who build the bridges stone by stone, the
resolutely humanist types who translate literature and  poetry from a foreign
language word for word. The slow work of matching up word to word and
 experience to experience has nothing whatever to do with technology. Without
it, though, we can't get  much of anywhere at all.


The writer is a member of the editorial page staff.

Copyright 1995 The Washington Post

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