Seamus Heaney is a Nobel prize-winning poet from Ireland who has published at least eleven distinct books of poetry. His work is almost universally accepted with pleasure. His popularity has been compared to that of W.B. Yeats before him. He was born on April 13, 1939 in Northern Ireland and much of his writing is about his memories of childhood in a time that is all but gone. It also addresses such generationally and nationally important events as the "Troubles" and his collection District and Circle contains what could be called a response to the world-shaking events of September 11, 2001.
On May 5, 2006, he gave his first (and, as it turned out, only) reading in the state of Kentucky, U.S.A. at the Great Hall of the King Library at the University of Kentucky, Lexington, KY. U.S.A. This was to support the release of District and Circle, which was officially released in the U.S. on the date of this reading. Also, it was to be a major part of an exhibition to celebrate Ireland's Nobel laureates called "Four Irish Nobel Laureates - W. B. Yeats, George Bernard Shaw, Samuel Beckett, Seamus Heaney."
A colleague of mine who teaches at the University of Kentucky knows that Mr. Heaney is my favorite poet. Paul Evans Holbrook, the director of King Library Press and Special Collections & Digital Programs Division, informed me that Mr. Heaney would be at the University, what day, and where. He also emailed me an official invitation to the event.
I was still a young poet then. It was the first time I had ever attended a literary event, and it was also my first time on a college campus. I was very nervous, not knowing what to expect. I came armed with the first Seamus Heaney book I ever owned: Opened Ground: Selected Poems, 1966-1996, a gift from friends of mine who also love poetry and support my writing. And, in perpetuation of a cliché in Heaney's life, I also brought the manuscript for what became my debut poetry collection Following Hope (Xlibris, 2007).
The King Library is kind of tucked away on the U.K. Campus. My Grandmother, Mother, and little sister, and I had some difficulty finding it. We definitely got our exercise walking the sprawling campus in search of the old building. Once inside, I was immediately charmed by it. It had a stateliness about it and was filled with the beautifully musty smell of old books. The rare manuscripts, books, and miscellaneous writing paraphernalia on display was irresistibly fascinating. The Great Hall itself was a cavernous white space with hard wood flooring and a delightful echoing effect.
Copies of District and Circle were on sale upon first entering the King Library, but an attempt to secure one proved impossible. They were sold out by the time I got to the table. I later ordered a copy on the Internet.
The exhibition was mostly in the Great Hall itself. By the time my party and I arrived, there were already many present in the Hall. Mr. Heaney himself was taking a look at the exhibition with a young man. So screwing up my beleaguered courage (I am naturally shy and therefore prone to getting "star-struck"), I approached him as he was looking at a picture of his much younger self and a copy of "Digging", a poem widely regarded as his first mature work and his emerging manifesto as it were.
"Will you sign my book?" I offered him the copy I had brought of Opened Ground, opened to my favorite poem of his to date, "Station Island". The young man with him (who I later learned was Heaney's son Christopher) looked down at me (I'm short) and said with an Irish accent: "Usually, books are signed after the reading." I was devastated at having committed such a terrible faux pas! I dribbled out some kind of apology, explaining that this was the first event I had been able to attend. I'm sure Christopher Heaney meant nothing by it, but I was that fragile in the moment. Mr. Heaney looked as embarrassed as I was and graciously signed the bottom of the page. Apologizing again, I took my leave to find a seat.
The Hall was soon packed. Eventually, my party had to be split up in order to find seats. My mother and I sat together about mid-way of the Hall and my grandmother and little sister sat together a couple of rows behind us. By the time the reading began, there were people lining the walls of the Hall and crowded in the corridor outside straining to catch a word. The official tally of the audience that day is 300.
Mr. Heaney's entourage of family and friends was briefly introduced to the audience and applauded. Then he began to read. Mr. Heaney's deep, musical voice carried well throughout the Great Hall despite the lack of sound equipment. Sometimes, it was a little difficult to follow the commentary and introductions to the poems because his accent was much thicker in person than the recordings I had heard of him up to that time. He read a wide selection of his work. Some were old favorites ("Mid-Term Break", "Digging", "Postscript") and some were new poems from District and Circle. He carefully covered the whole spectrum of his career. He read for at least an hour and was given a standing ovation. He humbly declined an encore.
There was a reception following in the room where the books had been for sale and the Special Collection displays were. Mr. Heaney was seated at a table and people lined up to have their books signed. It was clear that this was his first visit to the University. He looked as nervous as I was!
At this point, my family began urging me to get in line and give him the manuscript I had brought for that purpose. But what little confidence I had had received a fatal blow during our encounter before the reading. I was overwhelmed by everything into near-paralysis. Eventually, my mother all but dragged me into line and up to the table.
"Oh, it's you again!" Mr. Heaney said, smiling. I found I had no ability to speak, which only served to further embarrass me. My mother snatched the manuscript out of my hand and held it out, saying something along the lines of "This is my daughter, Sabne Raznik. She's trying to have this published. Could you, please, read it over sometime and tell her what you think?" He took it and gently said: "I can't promise anything. But I'll take a peep at it." This emboldened my mother who then asked: "How about a picture together?" He agreed and I stepped behind the table and leaned over so that our heads were as even as I could manage without his having to stand. Mom took the picture.
And I insisted we leave as soon as possible. I had thoroughly enjoyed myself, but was a definite fish out of water. In the years since, I have attended several literary events, mostly in support of that manuscript now known as Following Hope. I hope that I would be more comfortable if I ran into Mr. Heaney again. Who knows?
He was never able to get back to me regarding the manuscript. He had a stroke later that year, and was forced to completely clear his calendar for a year while he recovered. He did eventually make a complete recovery and is even now very busy with new writing, new projects, and appearances. He turned seventy last year (2009) which was a cause of national celebration in Ireland. And I have the picture on the nightstand next to my bed- a reminder that: yes, I am a poet.
Updated from original: I was completely shocked and undone by Seamus Heaney's unexpected death last year, and am still mourning it. I'm not sure if I can bear the inevitable eventual printing of his "Collected Poems". The finality of such a volume is unthinkable even now. To assuage my grief even a little I have been slowly reading through all his works again and attempting to acquire those I do not yet own. Because it is chiefly through those words that I came to know the man - and they were enough, for I feel as though I have lost a father of sorts. An artistic father, if you will. I have also inscribed some words from "Station Island" on a partition half-wall in my apartment. These are a reminder of the poet's duty: "You've listened long enough, now strike your note".
Friend of Heaney and fellow poet Paul Muldoon said in the eulogy what for me is the most touching quote of the funeral mass: "I flew into Belfast International Airport yesterday morning…. The border security officer was interested in what I was doing in the US. I told him I was a teacher, and he asked me what I taught. I said, “poetry.” And he looked at me directly, and he said, “You must be devastated today.”
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