Seamus Heaney

Rookie (April 13,1939 - August 30, 2013 / Castledàwson, County Londonderry)

Seamus Heaney Poems

1. ‘When all the others were away at Mass' 7/23/2015
2. A Kite For Aibhín 12/28/2011
3. Act Of Union 11/11/2010
4. Anahorish 12/28/2011
5. Anything Can Happen 2/19/2015
6. Blackberry-Picking 12/28/2011
7. Bogland 12/28/2011
8. Casualty 11/11/2010
9. Clearances 12/28/2011
10. Death Of A Naturalist 12/28/2011
11. Digging 12/28/2011
12. Docker 11/11/2010
13. Exposure 12/28/2011
14. Follower 12/28/2011
15. From Lightenings 11/11/2010
16. From The Frontier Of Writing 12/28/2011
17. Keeping Going 12/28/2011
18. Limbo 12/28/2011
19. Lovers On Aran 12/28/2011
20. Mid-Term Break 12/28/2011
21. Mossbawn: Two Poems In Dedication 12/28/2011
22. Oysters 12/16/2014
23. Personal Helicon 11/11/2010
24. Postscript 12/28/2011
25. Requiem For The Croppies 12/28/2011
26. Rite Of Spring 12/28/2011
27. Song 11/11/2010
28. Strange Fruit 12/28/2011
29. Tankas For Toraiwa 1/10/2012
30. Testimony 12/28/2011
31. The Early Purges 12/28/2011
32. The Grauballe Man 12/28/2011
33. The Harvest Bow 11/11/2010
34. The Otter 12/28/2011
35. The Perch 12/28/2011
36. The Tollund Man 11/11/2010
37. Twice Shy 12/28/2011
38. Villanelle For An Anniversary 2/9/2015
Best Poem of Seamus Heaney

Blackberry-Picking

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full
Until the ...

Read the full of Blackberry-Picking

Song

A rowan like a lipsticked girl.
Between the by-road and the main road
Alder trees at a wet and dripping distance
Stand off among the rushes.

There are the mud-flowers of dialect
And the immortelles of perfect pitch
And that moment when the bird sings very close
To the music of what happens

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