Details Appertaining To Books Death of a Naturalist

Title:Death of a Naturalist
Author:Seamus Heaney
Book Format:Paperback
Book Edition:Special Edition
Pages:Pages: 46 pages
Published:October 4th 1999 by Faber & Faber (first published 1966)
Categories:Poetry. Cultural. Ireland. European Literature. Irish Literature. Classics
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Death of a Naturalist Paperback | Pages: 46 pages
Rating: 4.28 | 2435 Users | 145 Reviews

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Some books are thin and light, yet they carry so much weight, like Heaney's Death of a Naturalist. Each poem in this collection is a work of art, a masterpiece. There is neither pretentiousness nor symbolism here. The collection is one of his most accessible and the best place to start with his work. Each poem is a story in itself and in this, Heaney has mesmerized me. I just imagined someone who had written an entire collection of short stories and then thought: "Let's see how we can strip away all the unnecessary narrative and just capture the essential imagery to reflect the story".

The autobiographical nature of these poems adds further interest, and exhibits the emotional investment that Heaney imparts on his reader, like in 'Digging' where we see the Heaney descended from a lineage of farmers who takes the path of the writer (an excerpt):

By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.

A befitting opening poem to let us know where he comes from and his tool of choice. The poems to follow reflect on his childhood growing up in a farm, elaborating on all kinds of experiences from the classroom to the slaughterhouse to first love; speaking of which, 'Twice Shy', the poem on first love was my favorite (an excerpt):

Her scarf a lá Bardot,
In suede flats for the walk,
She came with me one evening
For air and friendly talk.
We crossed the quiet river,
Took the embankment walk.

Traffic holding its breath,
Sky a tense diaphragm:
Dusk hung like a blackcloth
That shook where a swan swam,
Tremulous as a hawk
Hanging deadly, calm.

Then there was the sober and moving poem about the loss of his four-year-old brother in the poem 'Mid-Term Break', with the last line so powerful it leaves an affecting resonance (an excerpt):

Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops
And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him
For the first time in six weeks. Paler now,

Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple,
He lay in the four foot box as in his cot.
No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.

A four foot box, one foot for every year.

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Original Title: Death of a Naturalist
ISBN: 0571202403 (ISBN13: 9780571202409)
Edition Language: English
Literary Awards: Somerset Maugham Award (1968), Cholmondeley Award (1967), Eric Gregory Award (1966), Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize (1968)

Rating Appertaining To Books Death of a Naturalist
Ratings: 4.28 From 2435 Users | 145 Reviews

Write-Up Appertaining To Books Death of a Naturalist
I rhymeTo see myself, to set the darkness echoing.

I've been re-reading this alongside Derek Walcott's 'Midsummer' and it underscores the differences between the two poets. Walcott packs his poems with rich metaphors and similes, creating startlingly vivid images through unexpected combinations of adjectives and verbs. Heaney is more craggy, austere, full of precise specific terms for kinds of soil and vegetation. Both gaze at the world around them, but Walcott's regard is forever being reflected back upon himself while Heaney is more often

In memory and honor of Seamus Heaney, this evening Oleg and I alternated reading aloud from "Death of a Naturalist." Some favorite poems include "Digging," "Death of a Naturalist," "Blackberry-Picking," "Mid-Term Break," "The Diviner," "Scaffolding," and "Personal Helicon." Seamus Heaney read many of these poems at a reading that I attended at St. Oswald's Church in Grasmere, England in the summer of 2010.

Prior to picking this up if read maybe 5 or 6 poems by Heaney, the well known ones like Midterm Break and Digging which are unofficially required learning for all Irish children. However, this collection allowed me to explore more of Heaney's works which are mostly heavily autobiographical and deal with life in rural Ireland. It's not hard to see why Heaney was a Nobel Laurette for literature, even in his very first published poetry collection his mastery was clear.

I began reading this first book of poetry by the Nobel Laureate from Ireland a few weeks ago. My wife and daughter were traveling on the Dingle Peninsula and stayed a few nights visiting Trinity College and drank pints of Guinness and Bushmills at the Temple Bar and witnessed the statues of James Joyce and Oscar Wilde in the greens of the great Gaelic capital. Ireland is an island which adores its poets, literary novelists and playwrights with a national ardor that I devoutly wish for my own

Seamus Heaney is one of my favorite poets, although it's been too long since I last read him. The first lines in "Digging," the first poem in this collection, still ring loud and clear for me: "Between my finger and my thumb/The squat pen rests;/as snug as a gun."What I like best about Heaney's poetry is the sensual earthiness of it. You can hear the slop of mud and feel the earth yield beneath your spade. This has always seemed magical to me.

Living in Dublin, i have actually seen Seamus Heaney in person. About 5 years ago i was on a train that was about to pull out of Connolly Station. Just before it did i noticed Heaney and his wife standing on the platform facing me. in my drunken state i jumped up excitedly. "My God!" i thought, "its Seamus Heaney the noble prize winning poet! Someone who had been spoon fed to me for years in school!"........ I frantically tried to open the window so as to call out to him but alas the train

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