Irish - Poet | April 13, 1939 - August 30, 2013
The gift of writing is to be self-forgetful, to get a surge of inner life or inner supply or unexpected sense of empowerment, to be afloat, to be out of yourself.
Seamus Heaney
LifeYourselfWritingGiftOutGet
I have begun to think of life as a series of ripples widening out from an original center.
LifeThinkOutOriginalCenter
The faking of feelings is a sin against the imagination.
ImaginationFeelingsSinAgainst
Anyone born and bred in Northern Ireland can't be too optimistic.
BornIrelandNorthern IrelandAnyone
Since I was a schoolboy, I've been used to being recognized on the road by old and young, and being bantered with and, indeed, being taunted.
RoadYoungOldUsedBeingBeen
Nowadays, what an award gives is a sense of solidarity with the poetry guild, as it were: sustenance coming from the assent of your peers on the judging panel.
PoetryAwardJudgingSolidarityYour
My passport's green.
GreenPassport
The problem as you get older... is that you become more self-aware. At the same time, you have to surprise yourself. There's no way of arranging the surprise, so it is tricky.
TimeYourselfSurpriseProblemYou
In a way, Anglo-Saxon poetry cannot be translated.
PoetryWayCannotAnglo-Saxon
Whether it be a matter of personal relations within a marriage or political initiatives within a peace process, there is no sure-fire do-it-yourself kit.
MarriagePeaceProcessPolitical
I always believed that whatever had to be written would somehow get itself written.
AlwaysWhateverGetWouldBelieved
I'm not personally obsessed with death. At a certain age, the light that you live in is inhabited by the shades - it 'tis.
LiveAgeLightDeathYouShades
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