Heaney’s Poetry Makes Past Present

The last great academic don of Harvard wears no black robes and confines himself to no ivory tower. Seamus Heaney is a man of letters but not airs; he has the easy intellectualism of a scholarly master, yet retains an unassuming practicality that is surprisingly human.

Harvard’s Ralph Waldo Emerson Poet-in-Residence is one of the most stellar attractions the University counts among its rich wellspring of resources. The 1995 winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature doesn’t restrain himself to the poetry for which he won the prize; Heaney counts a definitive translation of Beowulf, over ten collections of radiant verse and several collections of critical essays among his impressively voluminous works.

Most recently, Heaney’s versatility as a thinker has revealed itself in a new translation of Sophocles’ Antigone, which he discussed last night in Yenching Auditorium. The talk was the final one of a three lecture series which covered a range of literary topics, from the importance of integrating poetry into everyday life to the context of his new book. The translation demonstrates the ways in which his wisdom has stemmed from a variety of sources far beyond his native Ireland.

At last week’s, “The Rite Words in the Rote Order: Poetry in a Life,” breathless first-years and English-department luminaries alike were captivated by Heaney’s deft weaving of lighthearted anecdotes with serious exploration of poetry’s role in the everyday.

Heaney spoke of the connection that a poem read out loud forms between speaker and listener, calling it “the thing that passed between us.” Heaney especially emphasized the oral tradition of memorized “rote” verse, citing what Yeats called “entering the belly of the whale.”

Heaney warned against dependency on the written word, quoting an Egyptian myth to remind his listeners that literacy-—while increasing the potential for wisdom to be stored and passed on through generations—also produces forgetfulness. Because it is possible to read but not understand a text, Heaney claims, the mere visual perception of words can actually disregard much of the wisdom they contain.

That his newest work is a play, Burial at Thebes, perhaps reflects Heaney’s emphasis on oral tradition best. Ireland’s Abbey Theatre commissioned him to pen this new translation of Antigone for its centenary celebration.

In the play, the title character defies her nation’s laws to give her brother—an alleged traitor—proper burial rights. As a result, the people of Thebes acquiesce to her execution.

“It’s historically a political play,” Heaney says. “In the 1940s, when it was presented in France, it was very well received; the Germans liked it because it was a play about the power of the state, while to the French it was about personal liberty. And in Ireland, the ramifications were especially obvious for its own political situation.”

While Heaney studied historical translations and their political implications in his translation, he also drew upon current events for inspiration. He says he saw clear parallels between President Bush before the Iraq War and Creon, the king of Thebes. Both were authoritative rulers who forced their people to make an absolute moral decision without full understanding of the moral ambiguity of their situation.

“The chorus and the people of Thebes know that something’s going on, that something’s not right; but they’re not sure what, exactly,” Heaney says.

The same, he implies, could be said for the American people before entering war in Iraq. “The word ‘patriot’ occurs naturally in the original text. The connections were there—‘patriot,’ the Patriot Act—but I didn’t want to underscore them too much,” he says. “I didn’t want to say, ‘Look here! NB!’”

Heaney reveals his reluctance in emphasizing the political aspect of Antigone most clearly in his adjustment of the title to Burial at Thebes. “I wanted to shift the focus to an anthropological, not political, interpretation of the text,” he says.

Heaney’s reliance on the most basic, visceral elements of the original Greek in his translation emphasizes the utterly human element of the drama. He underscores the rhythmic, oral quality that he prizes in his own work, and helps present unfettered what he calls the “fury of infinite feeling” of his characters.

When asked about his formative influences, “Well, first would be Gerard Manley Hopkins,” is Heaney’s reply. He then continues the list: “One of the greatest single works is Wordsworth’s Preface to his Lyrical Ballads. Patrick Cavanagh, and Ted Hughes, whom I later got to know.”

On a more personal level of inspiration, Heaney cites Polish expatriot poet Czeslaw Milosz, who recently passed away at the age of 93. “He had a great political as well as artistic feel,” he says.

Robert Lowell, one of the most prominent poets of the late 20th century, once called Heaney “the greatest Irish poet since Yeats.” Heaney says the visionary author was himself a necessary informant of his writing. “Yeats is like a mountain range, lying on the horizon. He can’t be emulated; you just walk around under the shade,” he says. Yet in his own work, Heaney has helped bring a good deal of illumination to that immense shadow.

Heaney originally taught for a living. At that point, he thought of his poetry as “more of a pastime” than an actual career.

When he reached his 30s, Heaney says he underwent a crucial transformation, moving back to the Irish country and spent four years concentrating solely on his poetry. “That clinched it,” he says, and so he began the long journey that would bring him into international acclaim as a writer and thinker.

Heaney has been formally affiliated with Harvard since 1982, when he began his fourteen-year tenure as a Visiting Lecturer. The arrangement stipulated that he spend a semester teaching in Cambridge every year.

In 1984, Heaney was elected as the Boylston Professor of Rhetoric and Oratory, an additional honor. The poet dubs his lectures and speeches his “bread and butter as an academic. That’s how I earn my keep,” he says. He often culls essays for volumes of prose from his addresses.

Beyond the classes and the lectures, Heaney has a continuing affection for Harvard’s scholarly atmosphere. The Poet-in-Residence’s affiliation with Adams House has no doubt contributed to its widespread popularity among speculative first-years, and continues what he calls its long “tradition of artistic and intellectual achievement.” Heaney also has a deep appreciation for such classically Cantabridgian landmarks as Sanders Theatre in Memorial Hall.

After Heaney resigned his teaching position in 1996, then-College President Neil Rudenstine renewed the Ralph Waldo Emerson position in order to preserve a place for Heaney in the bastion of American academia.

According to the terms of the position that among others Lowell and Robert Frost previously held, the poet spends six weeks in Cambridge every other year lecturing and giving readings for a University-wide audience.

Although students cannot now take advantage of Heaney’s poetry workshops or English and American Language and Literature lecture class, many do catch him at student readings and lectures.

Heaney’s most striking characteristic is his depth and precision of personal expression. His ability to fluidly summon up whatever phrase or muse fits the moment betrays an artistic keenness that as a rule, college students are only beginning to acquire.

Put simply, Seamus Heaney inspires the desire to be a better writer and thinker. That alone is worth clearing a calendar to see.