Ποιειν Και Πραττειν - create and do

Athens 30.8.2013

Letter to the poets

I suppose you have by now received the news that Seamus Heaney died after a short illness in a hospital in Dublin. He was 74 years of age.

When he received the Nobel Prize in 1995, he stated in Oslo that "I stand here because of three generations of Irish poets." That says already something about not only his modesty, but equally what insight he had in what it takes to become not only a good poet, but a world wide recognized one.

Heaney is considered to be more a rural poet. He comes literally from a farm and carried that heritage in so many words throughout his poetry.

Here in Athens we got to know him thanks to Emer Ronan whose father had been the first Irish Ambassador to Greece after the Junta fell. He was a close friend to Heaney, and when posted to Japan, had invited him to that country as well.

Repeatedly our poetry group called at that time still 'Touch Stone' (before becoming Poiein kai Prattein) tried to invite him to join our poetry discussions and festivals. He was always busy but then promised the next time that he would come to Greece, he would let me know in advance.

Then, in the middle of the night in 1995, it must have been around two in the morning, I received a phone call from Ireland with the voice on the other end asking me with some excitement in the voice, if I would know where Heaney is? All what person knew was that Seamus Heaney was in Greece. The reason for that phone call became evident the next day when the announcement was made that he had won the Nobel Prize and they had tried to find him, in order to convey the great news to him. Practically it meant Heaney was caught like a 'red herring' in Greece, and that in a double sense, if you know what is meant with this expression. Indeed, he was in Greece and had not informed us about his coming but who would not forgive him not only because of having won the Nobel prize, but also in understanding what he was seeking, namely to be left alone so that he could enjoy the rural countryside. He had wanted to spend some quiet time, some holidays only with his wife and another couple in the Pelopponese.

After he had received his Nobel Prize and after Katerina Anghelaki Rooke had translated his latest works, he did come to Greece when it was published. It happened to coincide with St. Patrick's Day and so we all gathered at the Irish Embassy in Athens to mark this special day. It was then that Heaney reaccounted what had gone through his mind prior to receiving the news that he had won the Nobel Prize.

In 1995 he had gone out for an early walk through the Greek countryside and on the way back they took a road which a farmer had just used. He could tell that he had collected a lot of oranges from his field full of orange trees since one word came to his mind. For the moment he saw so many oranges which had fallen off the farmer's vehicle and after hitting the ground, burst open, Heaney thought of one word which has a striking resemblance with life when more than just full: a b u n d a n c e. And that story happened just before the returned to the hotel where he received finally the news that he had won the Nobel Prize.

Mark my words, someone would say, and behold that is not a state of affairs or of mind being described, but a real condition of life. For once you see all the beauty and richness this world has to offer, then you are also prepared to give something truthful.

In the case of Seamus Heaney, it has been his poetry.

I suppose beauty can only be seen once deeply in love, for then everything shines. Love is like the sun which paints everything, including houses, trees and the children playing in the street, with bright colours. It marks a difference to those streets in Dublin where many walk without coat or take with them an umbrella since it rains almost every day, and they do so in the thought if you are strong enough to ignore the rain, you shall not get wet!

Theo Dorgan told once the story of a translation workshop Poetry Ireland had organized with Heaney. Many translators from different cultures and linguistic backgrounds gathered in Dublin to translate just one of his poems. To the surprise of all, it proved to be an almost impossible task to find afterwards something corresponding between these poems to what the original version contained. It seemed as if his poetry, as clear and ethical true he can be in his poetic language, would send out its seeds into the different languages and there let something else bloom. For his poetic gifts were free from any insistence of knowing only one version of what is true about life.

I have beside me his translation called 'Boewulf'. Thus it might be best to let this poet speak himself about translation and what it takes for poetry to stay alive, on this side, and not to give in to shadows seeking to instil fear or to humiliate. The greatness of his poetry lies in this humbleness but also directness which he loved to speak about or to speak to him. It is what ressonantes within that brings out the best in us:

"I came to the task of translating Beowulf with a prejudice in favour of forthright delivery. I remembered the voice of the poem as being attractively direct, even though the diction was ornate and the narrative method at times oblique. What I had always loved was a kind of foursquareness about the utterance, a feeling of living inside a constantly indicative mood, in the presence of an understanding that assume you share an awareness of the perilous nature of life and are yet capable of seeing it steadily and, when necessary, sternly." (p.xxvii)

Let us see how we shall together and alone remember this poet in the years to come, and what those rural metaphors can do with our urban minds most often not sure about the kind of understanding we can share.

Hatto Fischer

Athens 30.8.2013