Personal Helicon
As a child, they could not keep me from wells
And old pumps with buckets and windlasses.
I loved the dark drop, the trapped sky, the smells
Of waterweed, fungus and dank moss.
One, in a brickyard, with a rotted board top.
I savoured the rich crash when a bucket
Plummeted down at the end of a rope.
So deep you saw no reflection in it.
A shallow one under a dry stone ditch
Fructified like any aquarium.
When you dragged out long roots from the soft mulch
A white face hovered over the bottom.
Others had echoes, gave back your own call
With a clean new music in it. And one
Was scaresome, for there, out of ferns and tall
Foxgloves, a rat slapped across my reflection.
Now, to pry into roots, to finger slime,
To stare, big-eyed Narcissus, into some spring
Is beneath all adult dignity. I rhyme
To see myself, to set the darkness echoing.
– Seamus Heaney (1939-2013 – he died today, a few hours ago)
Thanks for posting this–it’s a fantastic poem. I wouldn’t have know about Heaney’s death except for your post. In fact, I wouldn’t have known about a LOT of fascinating poets, philosophers, and a myriad other intriguing ways to view human existence were it not for your friendship over the years and, more recently, your fascinating, intriguing, and mind-expanding blog. Glad you’re getting near the end of the zap-o-matic, and have fun in Hantucky!