The Death of a Poet

The Death of a Poet

Not long awake, I sat my first mug of coffee down and unfolded the still warm newspaper, wincing a little as I turned my eyes to the front page.  I was unsure of what fresh hell would stare up to greet me.  The march to another war?  The raging wildfire?  No.  It was a bittersweet surprise to see the clear eyed gaze of the poet, his photograph significantly large, above the fold, its sheer size regulating all other stories to lesser importance on this day.  Seamus Heaney had died.  

The loss of so monumental a poet is a sad fact indeed.  His absence will leave a hole in the culture few if any can fill.  But strangely, staring down at the paper, I found myself flooded with hope.  In a world so fraught and torn, where every news story seems unrelentingly bleak and art often feels corporately designed for the lowest common denominator, that the death of a poet should be considered the dominant news of the day, was wholly uplifting to me.   I saw it as an affirmation of sorts, a declaration to the world that thoughtful words and the recognition of beauty still deserve our greatest attention.

Here in the states it has been difficult, if not impossible, to have spent the last week unaware of the fracas over the performance of another one of our manufactured pop stars on the stage of a televised awards show.  Apparently hoping to catapult herself to adulthood in the eyes of her fans, the former teen darling attempted a romp of blatant sexuality that unfortunately succeeded in being a cringe-worthy spectacle so repellent and laughable that it managed to convey to the world merely that she’d gone off the rails in spectacular fashion.  Parents were up in arms.  Prayers were requested.  And, as her agents and managers knew full well, the result was that she remained the top story all week long, grabbing both the number two and number three spots for iTunes sales in exchange for her sacrificed dignity.

When one looks at the top of the charts it is easy to slide into cynicism.  Badly written books soar to the stratosphere on the wings of vacuous vampires and half-naked, lamebrained ingenues.  Popular music seems merely a vehicle for ego; films are unoriginal and calculated.   Technology has cluttered modern life in ways unimagined even a few years ago.  Just as the robber points and shouts, “Look Over There!” while he slickly steals our wallet, we are bombarded with meaningless diversions at every turn in the road.  
But wait. Not so fast. There is still hope.  

If we can manage to stop up our ears and pick our way through the detritus of commerce, it is possible to break free to travel a clearer road.   The quest for truth and beauty is still a noble one and when we occasionally uncover a gem that makes our heart sing and our soul lift, the reward is pure joy and, dare I say, a little bit of wisdom.  I was reminded of this the other night as I watched Cate Blanchett’s transcendent performance in the new movie, Blue Jasmine.  She breathes such life into her fictional character that one is able to feel oneself lifted up in understanding and empathy, which is, I suppose, the ultimate purpose of art. 

As The New York Times declared by its coverage of the death of Seamus Heaney, poetry still matters.  Art occasionally still trumps war, politics and even commerce.  It remains the best route to a sapient comprehension of our common humanity; a way to illuminate beauty as well as to better comprehend pain; a path that can lead to the discovery of truth.

 Rest in peace, Mr. Heaney.  God rest your soul. 

Postscript

And some time make the time to drive out west
Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,
In September or October, when the wind
And the light are working off each other
So that the ocean on one side is wild
With foam and glitter, and inland among stones
The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit
By the earthed lightening of flock of swans,
Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,
Their fully-grown headstrong-looking heads
Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.
Useless to think you'll park or capture it
More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,
A hurry through which known and strange things pass
As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
And catch the heart off guard and blow it open.

by Seamus Heaney

Portrait of Seamus Heaney above by Peter Edwards