Status
Available
Call number
Genres
Publication
Faber & Faber (2012), Edition: Main, 96 pages
Description
Heaney's new collection elicits continuities and solidarities, between husband and wife, child and parent, then and now, inside an intently remembered present--the stepping stones of the day, the weight and heft of what is passed from hand to hand, lifted and lowered.
User reviews
LibraryThing member BlackSheepDances
I'm not even going to think about calling this a review of Seamus Heaney's latest collection of poems, Human Chain.. It would be incredibly presumptuous on my part to even suggest that I'm going to "evaluate" his work (of course, normally I'm always presumptuous in terms of reviewing!). Instead,
For one thing, his writing style is so straightforward and concise. It's not fluffy or ostentatious or full of bizarre allusions that make you feel ignorant for not understanding. Instead, he writes like a reader, with spare words that draw crisp pictures. Yet his poetry does have layers...you can find multiple meanings if you ponder what he says, so they still have depth and are certainly not simplistic at all. In fact, in many ways his simplicity is deceiving.
For example, I recently re-read "Digging", a poem he wrote in 1968 about a man admiring his father's and grandfather's strength as they turned over turf and worked the land in Ireland. He concludes the poem with something along the lines (I'm paraphrasing) that 'I'll have to do the work with my pen'. What initially is a pleasant enough little story (hard work, family, nature) suddenly had a deeper meaning and then, "digging" into it, one could see he was commenting on the struggles of Northern Ireland and showing the violence that was sometimes used to create change in the Republic. He never got pushy or overtly political but you could clearly see that he was sending another message.
So, in reading Human Chain, I was again dazzled by his subtlety. In one poem, "Miracle", he leads the reader into another direction of thought as he reconsiders the Biblical event of Christ healing a lame man:
Not the one who takes up his bed and walks
But the ones who have known him all along
And carry him in-
Their shoulders numb, the ache and stoop deeplocked
In their backs, the stretcher handles
Slippery with sweat. And no let-up
Until he's strapped on tight, made tiltable
And raised to the tiled roof, then lowered for healing.
Be mindful of them as they stand and wait
For the burn of the paid-out ropes to cool,
Their slight lightheadedness and incredulity
To pass, those ones who had known him all along.
Here, he's stepped back from a significant event to expand on its effects to those out of the spotlight, observers on the periphery who are also altered, although less obviously. In "Slack", he writes about the repetitive and mundane nature of storing coal for the fire, and shows what the symbolic heat means for the home:
A sullen pile
But soft to the shovel, accommodating
As the clattering coal was not.
In days when life prepared for rainy days
It lay there, slumped and waiting,
To dampen down and lengthen out...
And those words-
"Bank the fire"-
Every bit as solid as
The cindery skull
Formed when its tarry
Coral cooled.
Here he illustrates the fragile balance of life and death as dependent on the existence of the humble coal; and foreshadows what happens when the coal runs out. In that case, the cold shells of the fire appear as "skulls". So is he talking about just a home fire or the flame of one's heart?
Finally, the most poignant of all is "The Butts", where the narrator describes searching through a wardrobe of old suits. He describes how they "swung heavily like waterweed disturbed" as he checks the pockets and finds them full of old cigarette butts, "nothing but chaff cocoons, a paperiness not known again until the last days came". Colors, sounds, even odors are a part of the poem as he leaves you to wonder why he's looking through the clothing. Hinting, but never direct, one senses that Heaney is describing the search for a proper burial suit. For a father?
Throughout the collection, varying dedications for the poems give the sense that Heaney wants to go on record with his past and make the connections that are implied with the title, Human Chain. When I first looked at the cover, I thought it was of trees branches, maybe birch, threading out to tiny tips. Then I was alerted to a possibly different meaning when I saw a microscopic picture of the human circulatory system-the blood channels that look so similar to branches. In either case, Heaney has shown, again, an amazing grasp of the connections and complexity of the human condition.
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I'm going to just relay a few points that I love about this amazing poet, and why you should read him if you haven't already. For one thing, his writing style is so straightforward and concise. It's not fluffy or ostentatious or full of bizarre allusions that make you feel ignorant for not understanding. Instead, he writes like a reader, with spare words that draw crisp pictures. Yet his poetry does have layers...you can find multiple meanings if you ponder what he says, so they still have depth and are certainly not simplistic at all. In fact, in many ways his simplicity is deceiving.
For example, I recently re-read "Digging", a poem he wrote in 1968 about a man admiring his father's and grandfather's strength as they turned over turf and worked the land in Ireland. He concludes the poem with something along the lines (I'm paraphrasing) that 'I'll have to do the work with my pen'. What initially is a pleasant enough little story (hard work, family, nature) suddenly had a deeper meaning and then, "digging" into it, one could see he was commenting on the struggles of Northern Ireland and showing the violence that was sometimes used to create change in the Republic. He never got pushy or overtly political but you could clearly see that he was sending another message.
So, in reading Human Chain, I was again dazzled by his subtlety. In one poem, "Miracle", he leads the reader into another direction of thought as he reconsiders the Biblical event of Christ healing a lame man:
Not the one who takes up his bed and walks
But the ones who have known him all along
And carry him in-
Their shoulders numb, the ache and stoop deeplocked
In their backs, the stretcher handles
Slippery with sweat. And no let-up
Until he's strapped on tight, made tiltable
And raised to the tiled roof, then lowered for healing.
Be mindful of them as they stand and wait
For the burn of the paid-out ropes to cool,
Their slight lightheadedness and incredulity
To pass, those ones who had known him all along.
Here, he's stepped back from a significant event to expand on its effects to those out of the spotlight, observers on the periphery who are also altered, although less obviously. In "Slack", he writes about the repetitive and mundane nature of storing coal for the fire, and shows what the symbolic heat means for the home:
A sullen pile
But soft to the shovel, accommodating
As the clattering coal was not.
In days when life prepared for rainy days
It lay there, slumped and waiting,
To dampen down and lengthen out...
And those words-
"Bank the fire"-
Every bit as solid as
The cindery skull
Formed when its tarry
Coral cooled.
Here he illustrates the fragile balance of life and death as dependent on the existence of the humble coal; and foreshadows what happens when the coal runs out. In that case, the cold shells of the fire appear as "skulls". So is he talking about just a home fire or the flame of one's heart?
Finally, the most poignant of all is "The Butts", where the narrator describes searching through a wardrobe of old suits. He describes how they "swung heavily like waterweed disturbed" as he checks the pockets and finds them full of old cigarette butts, "nothing but chaff cocoons, a paperiness not known again until the last days came". Colors, sounds, even odors are a part of the poem as he leaves you to wonder why he's looking through the clothing. Hinting, but never direct, one senses that Heaney is describing the search for a proper burial suit. For a father?
Throughout the collection, varying dedications for the poems give the sense that Heaney wants to go on record with his past and make the connections that are implied with the title, Human Chain. When I first looked at the cover, I thought it was of trees branches, maybe birch, threading out to tiny tips. Then I was alerted to a possibly different meaning when I saw a microscopic picture of the human circulatory system-the blood channels that look so similar to branches. In either case, Heaney has shown, again, an amazing grasp of the connections and complexity of the human condition.
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LibraryThing member Helenliz
While I adore Seamus Heaney's translation of Beowulf, this was my first attempt at reading his poetry.
There's an air of loss and sadness here, it's as if the poetry is all written in the past tense, with nostalgia for youth and the decay of aging seeming to be the theme of this collection.
Some of
There's an air of loss and sadness here, it's as if the poetry is all written in the past tense, with nostalgia for youth and the decay of aging seeming to be the theme of this collection.
Some of
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it I quite liked, but I'm left with a nagging sensation that I've missed something somewhere along the line. Show Less
LibraryThing member leslie.98
Although I liked many of these poems, I didn't love any of them and was bored by a few. Of the ones I liked, "A Herbal" and "In the Attic" appealed to me the most, with "Derry Derry Down" and "Route 110" close seconds.
LibraryThing member g026r
Seamus Heaney's latest is, overall, a mixed bag.
The usual, stereotypical Heaney subjects are present: childhood in Northern Ireland, memorials of people long gone (often due to sectarian violence), the Irish landscape, but all these come across as a bit perfunctory. There's nothing new in them, no
The volume only really hits its stride when he moves on to eulogizing the more recently departed, to his own advancing age and his recent-ish stroke. Then the emotion breaks through: sad, weary, even tired, but all the same with a greater feeling of authenticity.
The usual, stereotypical Heaney subjects are present: childhood in Northern Ireland, memorials of people long gone (often due to sectarian violence), the Irish landscape, but all these come across as a bit perfunctory. There's nothing new in them, no
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great well-swelling of feeling that wasn't there before, that perhaps wasn't expressed more movingly or eloquently.The volume only really hits its stride when he moves on to eulogizing the more recently departed, to his own advancing age and his recent-ish stroke. Then the emotion breaks through: sad, weary, even tired, but all the same with a greater feeling of authenticity.
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LibraryThing member freelancer_frank
This book is about beauty, fragility and the very thereness of things. The poems remind one of what it is to be alive.
LibraryThing member dasam
A remarkable collection ---Heaney's work does not diminish with age.
LibraryThing member eldang
A rather patchy collection. The poems I liked best conveyed a strong sense of watching the world through aging eyes, and saying goodbye to old friends - Heaney using his own aging for material in the same way as Johnny Cash's heartrending last few albums - but there were also many that I just found
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inaccessible, in spite of having been a fan of his work for some time. Show Less
LibraryThing member eldang
A rather patchy collection. The poems I liked best conveyed a strong sense of watching the world through aging eyes, and saying goodbye to old friends - Heaney using his own aging for material in the same way as Johnny Cash's heartrending last few albums - but there were also many that I just found
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inaccessible, in spite of having been a fan of his work for some time. Show Less
LibraryThing member PDCRead
I have been recommended poetry by various people over the years and one name that keeps being mentioned is Seamus Heaney. Shamefully I had never read any of his at all. Thankfully my local library had a copy of Human Chain and unusually I had space on my card, so I grabbed a copy.
This the first of
Everywhere plants
Flourish among the graves,
Sinking in their roots
In all the dynasties
Of the dead
I wasn’t totally sure what to expect with this collection and it was not the easiest read to be honest given that it is about those that are in the autumn of their lives. It is pretty melancholic reading, but there were the odd glittering lines in amongst the poems. I have also got a couple of his other collections to read, including Opened Ground.
Three Favourite Poems
Album
The Wool Road
Slack
This the first of
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his collections that I have read and from what I can gather is the last collection that he was well enough to have full editorial control over. Just the title is quite chilling, as it made me think of the oppressed, but the context here is the people that helped carry him to get medical care after he had had a stroke. Heaney also concerns himself with the loss of friends and family as time grinds on. The prose is warm and nostalgic at times and then can feel disjointed and unsettling at other moments.Everywhere plants
Flourish among the graves,
Sinking in their roots
In all the dynasties
Of the dead
I wasn’t totally sure what to expect with this collection and it was not the easiest read to be honest given that it is about those that are in the autumn of their lives. It is pretty melancholic reading, but there were the odd glittering lines in amongst the poems. I have also got a couple of his other collections to read, including Opened Ground.
Three Favourite Poems
Album
The Wool Road
Slack
Show Less
Awards
Poetry Book Society Choice and Recommendation (Choice — 2010.3)
Forward Poetry Prize (Winner — Best Collection — 2010)
T. S. Eliot Prize (Shortlist — 2010)
Poetry Now Award (Winner — 2011)
Language
Original language
English
Original publication date
2010-09-02 (UK)
2010-09-14 (USA)
Physical description
96 p.; 5.08 inches
ISBN
0571269249 / 9780571269242