I bought The Guardian on saturday, and found a little surprise inside: a cd with poems read by Sylvia Plath, Ted Hughes, Philip Larkin, T. S. Eliot, W. H. Auden, Siegfried Sasson and Seamus Heaney. I remember my English Lit teacher Colin White saying that Hughes was a marvellous reader of his own poems; and he certainly is.
Of all the poems that I heard Seamus Heaney's is the one I most liked. Although Hughes and Plath read beautifully, Heaney's style is more natural, therefore less artificial, though as it has been said before there's nothing more artificial than being natural -oh, to be honest I can't remember the quote and I'm afraid I have completely distorted it. Here is Heaney's poem:
Clearances 3
In Memoriam M.K.H., 1911-1984
When all the others were away at Mass
I was all hers as we peeled potatoes.
They broke the silence, let fall one by one
Like solder weeping off the soldering iron:
Cold comforts set between us, things to share
Gleaming in a bucket of clean water.
And again let fall. Little pleasant splashes
From each other's work would bring us to our senses.
So while the parish priest at her bedside
Went hammer and tongs at the prayers for the dying
And some were responding and some crying
I remembered her head bent towards my head,
Her breath in mine, our fluent dipping knives--
Never closer the whole rest of our lives.