Oh My God Oh My God Seamus Heaney!

The 92nd Street Y started off their 2011/2012 literature season with a bang by lining up Seamus Heaney as their first speaker. Though the place ended up being virtually sold out, I must have been one of the first to leap on the opportunity to buy a ticket because I was in the very front row, providing me an unobstructed view of the underside of Heaney's chin as he towered above me onstage. (Really, it was awesome being that close.) I have seen some very accomplished authors speak, but this may be the first time I've seen someone so truly legendary. I first read his work because it was in one of those anthologies you have to buy for poetry classes in college that collect all of the significant poetry written in the last 300 years in one volume, and his work was there alongside that of Donne, Milton, Dickinson, Tennyson... Heaney won the Nobel Prize in Literature, the Golden Wreath of Poetry, the T.S. Eliot Prize, and two Witbread prizes, and served as Professor of Poetry at Harvard and Oxford, among other accomplishments too numerous to list here. Also, he was on a STAMP. How cool is that?

Heaney spoke at the Y forty years ago, and they were delighted to have him back. After a flowery introduction by a sprightly, bald poet named Atsuro Riley, Heaney slowly plodded onto the stage. He has tufts of cotton-y hair and wore glasses with rectangular glasses, a striped blazer, and slacks with a perfect crease ironed into them. He spoke, of course, with a delicious brogue that made his poems even lovelier, and unlike the effusive Riley, his language was simple and streamlined. Mostly, particularly when reading his older work, he barely looked down at the text, gazing out into the audience and reciting with perfect smoothness lines he must have said hundreds of times. He read his newer work from a trembling book, and his hands shook as well when he paused to take sips of water; he had a stroke a few years ago, and though he said he's recovered very well, I get the sense that it has slowed him down some. He cracked jokes about esoteric things like iambic pentameter that made his literary audience hoot in a way I can't imagine most crowds would.

Heaney preceded each poem he read with a brief story about how it came to be written or an explanation of a term or figure featured in the poem, which I really enjoyed. It is amazing how much of a backstory there can be to a single phrase. After each poem, however, he took enough time for a breath or two and then plowed into the next one; I'd have appreciated a few moments to savor the last poem before he began a new one. Still, hearing him read his own work was a wonderful experience.

I sat next to two old men who spent the 20 minutes before the reading excitedly passing a book of Heaney's poems back and forth. An old woman behind me let out a "hmmm" after virtually every line Heaney said/read, varying length or the emphasis to fit her reaction; amazing how she was able to express surprise, affirmation, suspense, and pleasure with a single sound, while managing to be consistently irritating all the while. The rest of the audience was vocal as well (though not so frequently). After a particularly poignant line, the place would suddenly seem to vibrate as everyone in the audience murmured "mmmm," in unison. They may have been thoughtful about his work, but many of them were not thoughtful about their behavior. I heard 7 cell phones go off during the performance. (After the third ring, I started keeping a tally).

I was disappointed that Heaney did not sign books afterwards, but he did look pretty beat as he wandered off the stage. (The poor man is 72, after all, though he looked older.) Still, having the opportunity to hearhim read his own work was unforgettable, so perhaps I don't need a souvenir after all.