Opened Ground: Selected Poems, 1966-1996

( 1 )


As selected by the author, Opened Ground includes the essential work from Heaney's twelve previous books of poetry, as well as new sequences drawn from two of his landmark translations, The Cure at Troy and Sweeney Astray, and several previously uncollected poems. Heaney's voice is like no other—"by turns mythological and journalistic, rural and sophisticated, reminiscent and impatient, stern and yielding, curt and expansive" (Helen Vendler, The New Yorker)—and this is a one-volume testament to the musicality and...

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Opened Ground: Selected Poems, 1966-1996

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As selected by the author, Opened Ground includes the essential work from Heaney's twelve previous books of poetry, as well as new sequences drawn from two of his landmark translations, The Cure at Troy and Sweeney Astray, and several previously uncollected poems. Heaney's voice is like no other—"by turns mythological and journalistic, rural and sophisticated, reminiscent and impatient, stern and yielding, curt and expansive" (Helen Vendler, The New Yorker)—and this is a one-volume testament to the musicality and precision of that voice. The book closes with Heaney's Nobel Lecture: "Crediting Poetry."

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
"[This collection] eloquently confirms his status as the most skillful and profound poet writing in English today."—Edward Mendelson, The New York Times Book Review

"Perhaps the best descriptions of Seamus Heaney's extraordinarily rich and varied oeuvre come from the poet's own work. Mr. Heaney has created a remarkable series of poems that stay 'true to the impact of external reality' while at the same time remaining 'sensitive to the inner laws of the poet's being.'"—Michiko Kakutani, The New York Times

"Having just reread most of his poems, I find myself more, not less, interested, and convinced that I have only begun to plumb their bracing depths . . . The poems stay in the mind, which is the one essential feature of major poetry."—Jay Parini, The Nation

"Heaney's commitment to the independence of his art, to the pursuit of shape and richness and abundant ambiguity, is also a profound commitment to the quality of public life . . . In a dark time, Heaney . . . has turned borders and dividing lines into rich frontiers."—Fintan O'Toole, The New York Review of Books

Edward Mendelson
The ground opened by his dense with the bodies of the ancient and recent dead, and the emptiness left by his digging is filled with glowing visionary memories....a collection with a satisfying heft and more than enough variety of subject and style...
The New York Times Book Review
Michiko Kakutani
...[A] remarkable series of poems that stay 'true to the impact of external reality' ...[and remain] 'sensitive to the inner laws of the poet's being'....[his] art, in Mr. Heaney's own words....'commemorates the endurance of the private in the face of history and public grief.'
The New York Times
Library Journal
If you can't afford all 12 of Nobel Laureate Heaney's previous works, here is a selection spanning 30 years. Heaney stays close to the ground in his measured, meditative poems, reveling in the everyday — but since the everyday in Ireland can mean sectarian violence, there's a dark edge, too.
Irish America Magazine
[A] delight...
John Kerrigan
...[A] grand new retrospective volume....Fuller than a selected poems yet more abstemious than a collected, Opened Ground presents Heaney's dialogue with himself almost too coherently.
London Review of Books
Elizabeth Lund
Heaney...renders the truth about both the external and internal worlds, balancing the bitter with the beautiful.
The Christian Science Monitor
Michiko Kakutani
Eschewing ideology and &#39the diamond absolutes' of partisans on both sides in Northern Ireland, Mr. Heaney has created a remarkable series of poems that stay &#39true to the impact of external reality' while at the same time remaining &#39sensitive to the inner laws of the poet&#39s being&#39.
#151;The New York Times Book Review
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780374526788
  • Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux
  • Publication date: 10/25/1999
  • Edition description: Reprint
  • Edition number: 1
  • Pages: 464
  • Sales rank: 128,798
  • Product dimensions: 6.00 (w) x 8.20 (h) x 1.18 (d)

Meet the Author

Seamus Heaney (1939-2013) received the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1995. His poems, plays, translations, and essays include Opened Ground, Electric Light, Beowulf, The Spirit Level, District and Circle, and Finders Keepers. Robert Lowell praised Heaney as the "most important Irish poet since Yeats."

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Read an Excerpt

Chapter One


Death of a Naturalist


Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.
Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
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.

    Death of a Naturalist
All year the flax-dam festered in the heart
Of the townland; green and heavy-headed
Flax had rotted there, weighted down by huge sods.
Daily it sweltered in the punishing sun.
Bubbles gargled delicately, bluebottles
Wove a strong gauze of sound around the smell.
There were dragonflies, spotted butterflies,
But best of all was the warm thick slobber
Of frogspawn that grew like clotted water
In the shade of the banks. Here, every spring
I would fill jampotfuls of the jellied
Specks to range on window-sills at home,
On shelves at school, and wait and watch until
The fattening dots burst into nimble
Swimming tadpoles. Miss Walls would tell us how
The daddy frog was called a bullfrog
And how he croaked and how the mammy frog
Laid hundreds of little eggs and this was
Frogspawn. You could tell the weather by frogs too
For they were yellow in the sun and brown
In rain.
Then one hot day when fields were rank
With cowdung in the grass the angry frogs
Invaded the flax-dam; I ducked through hedges
To a coarse croaking that I had not heard
Before. The air was thick with a bass chorus.
Right down the dam gross-bellied frogs were cocked
On sods; their loose necks pulsed like sails. Some hopped:
The slap and plop were obscene threats. Some sat
Poised like mint grenades, their blunt heads farting.
I sickened, turned, and ran. The great slime kings
Were gathered there for vengeance and I knew
That if I dipped my hand the spawn would clutch it.

    The Barn
Threshed corn lay piled like grit of ivory
Or solid as cement in two-lugged sacks.
The musky dark hoarded an armoury
Of farmyard implements, harness, plough-socks.
The floor was mouse-grey, smooth, chilly concrete.
There were no windows, just two narrow shafts
Of gilded motes, crossing, from air-holes slit
High in each gable. The one door meant no draughts
All summer when the zinc burned like an oven.
A scythe's edge, a clean spade, a pitchfork's prongs:
Slowly bright objects formed when you went in.
Then you felt cobwebs clogging up your lungs
And scuttled fast into the sunlit yard —
And into nights when bats were on the wing
Over the rafters of sleep, where bright eyes stared
From piles of grain in corners, fierce, unblinking.
The dark gulfed like a roof-space. I was chaff
To be pecked up when birds shot through the air-slits.
I lay face-down to shun the fear above.
The two-lugged sacks moved in like great blind rats.

    for Philip Hobsbaum
Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked tip and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full,
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.

    Churning Day
A thick crust, coarse-grained as limestone rough-cast,
hardened gradually on top of the four crocks
that stood, large pottery bombs, in the small pantry.
After the hot brewery of gland, cud and udder,
cool porous earthenware fermented the butter milk
for churning day, when the hooped churn was scoured
with plumping kettles and the busy scrubber
echoed daintily on the seasoned wood.
It stood then, purified, on the flagged kitchen floor.
Out came the four crocks, spilled their heavy lip
of cream, their white insides, into the sterile churn.
The staff, like a great whiskey muddler fashioned
in deal wood, was plunged in, the lid fitted.
My mother took first turn, set up rhythms
that, slugged and thumped for hours. Arms ached.
Hands blistered. Cheeks and clothes were spattered
with flabby milk.
Where finally gold flecks
began to dance. They poured hot water then,
sterilized a birchwood bowl
and little corrugated butter-spades.
Their short stroke quickened, suddenly
a yellow curd was weighting the churned-up white,
heavy and rich, coagulated sunlight
that they fished, dripping, in a wide tin strainer,
heaped up like gilded gravel in the bowl.
The house would stink long after churning day,
acrid as a sulphur mine. The empty crocks
were ranged along the wall again, the butter
in soft printed slabs was piled on pantry shelves.
And in the house we moved with gravid ease,
our brains turned crystals full of clean deal churns,
the plash and gurgle of the sour-breathed milk,
the pat and slap of small spades on wet lumps.

My father worked with a horse-plough,
His shoulders globed like a full sail strung
Between the shafts and the furrow.
The horses strained at his clicking tongue.
An expert. He would set the wing
And fit the bright steel-pointed sock.
The sod rolled over without breaking.
At the headrig, with a single pluck
Of reins, the sweating team turned round
And back into the land. His eye
Narrowed and angled at the ground,
Mapping the furrow exactly.
I stumbled in his hobnailed wake,
Fell sometimes on the polished sod;
Sometimes he rode me on his back
Dipping and rising to his plod.
I wanted to grow up and plough,
To close one eye, stiffen my arm.
All I ever did was follow
In his broad shadow round the farm.
I was a nuisance, tripping, falling,
Yapping always. But today
It is my father who keeps stumbling
Behind me, and will not go away.

    Mid-Term Break
I sat all morning in the college sick bay
Counting bells knelling classes to a close.
At two o'clock our neighbours drove me home.
In the porch I met my father crying —
He had always taken funerals in his stride —
And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.
The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram
When I came in, and I was embarrassed
By old men standing up to shake my hand
And tell me they were `sorry for my trouble'.
Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest,
Away at school, as my mother held my hand
In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs.
At ten o'clock the ambulance arrived
With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.
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, a foot for every year.

    The Diviner
Cut from the green hedge a forked hazel stick
That he held tight by the arms of the V:
Circling the terrain, hunting the pluck
Of water, nervous, but professionally
Unfussed. The pluck came sharp as a sting.
The rod jerked with precise convulsions.
Spring water suddenly broadcasting
Through a green hazel its secret stations.
The bystanders would ask to have a try.
He handed them the rod without a word.
It lay dead in their grasp till, nonchalantly,
He gripped expectant wrists. The hazel stirred.

    for Marie
Love, I shall perfect for you the child
Who diligently potters in my brain
Digging with heavy spade till sods were piled
Or puddling through muck in a deep drain.
Yearly I would sow my yard-long garden.
I'd strip a layer of sods to build the wall
That was to keep out sow and pecking hen.
Yearly, admitting these, the sods would fall.
Or in the sucking clabber I would splash
Delightedly and dam the flowing drain
But always my bastions of clay and mush
Would burst before the rising autumn rain.
Love, you shall perfect for me this child
Whose small imperfect limits would keep breaking:
Within new limits now, arrange the world
And square the circle: four walls and a ring.

    Personal Helicon
    for Micheal Longley
As a child, they could not keep me from wells
And old pumps with buckets and windlasses.
I loved the dark drop, the trapped sky, the smells
Of waterweed, fungus and dank moss.
One, in a brickyard, with a rotted board top.
I savoured the rich crash when a bucket
Plummeted down at the end of a rope.
So deep you saw no reflection in it.
A shallow one under a dry stone ditch
Fructified like any aquarium.
When you dragged out long roots from the soft mulch
A white face hovered over the bottom.
Others had echoes, gave back your own call
With a clean new music in it. And one
Was scaresome, for there, out of ferns and tall
Foxgloves, a rat slapped across my reflection.
Now, to pry into roots, to finger slime,
To stare, big-eyed Narcissus, into some spring
Is beneath all adult dignity. I rhyme
To see myself, to set the darkness echoing.

When I lie on the ground
I rise flushed as a rose in the morning.
In fights I arrange a fall on the ring
To rub myself with sand
That is operative
As an elixir. I cannot be weaned
Off the earth's long contour, her river-veins.
Down here in my cave
Girdered with root and rock
I am cradled in the dark that wombed me
And nurtured in every artery
Like a small hillock.
Let each new hero come,
Seeking the golden apples and Atlas:
He must wrestle with me before he pass
Into that realm of fame
Among sky-born and royal.
He may well throw me and renew my birth
But let him not plan, lifting me off the earth,
My elevation, my fall.
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Table of Contents

Author's Note

from Death of a Naturalist  (1966)


Death of a Naturalist

The Barn


Churning Day


Mid-Term Break

The Diviner


Personal Helicon

Antaeus  (1966)

from Door into the Dark  (1969)

The Outlaw

The Forge


The Peninsula

Requiem for the Croppies


The Wife's Tale

Night Drive

Relic of Memory

A Lough Neagh Sequence

The Given Note


The Plantation

Bann Clay


from Wintering Out  (1972)


Bog Oak


Servant Boy


Gifts of Rain




The Backward Look

A New Song

The Other Side

Tinder (from A Northern Hoard)

The Tollund Man


Wedding Day

Mother of the Groom

Summer Home


Shore Woman






from Stations  (1975)



England's Difficulty


Trial Runs

The Wanderer


The Stations of the West


from North  (1975)

Mossbawn: Two Poems in Dedication

1. Sunlight

2. The Seed Cutters

Funeral Rites


Viking Dublin: Trial Pieces

Bone Dreams

Bog Queen

The Grauballe Man


Strange Fruit


Act of Union

Hercules and Antaeus

from Whatever You Say Say Nothing

Singing School

1. The Ministry of Fear

2. A Constable Calls

3. Orange Drums, Tyrone, 1966

4. Summer 1969

5. Fosterage

6. Exposure

from Field Work  (1979)



After a Killing


At the Water's Edge

0The Toome Road

A Drink of Water

The Strand at Lough Beg



The Singer's House

The Guttural Muse

Glanmore Sonnets

An Afterwards

The Otter

The Skunk

A Dream of Jealousy

Field Work



The Harvest Bow

In Memoriam Francis Ledwidge


from Sweeney Astray  (1983)

Sweeney in Flight

The Names of the Hare  (1981)

from Station Island  (1984)

The Underground

Sloe Gin

Chekhov on Sakhalin

Sandstone Keepsake

from Shelf Life

Granite Chip

Old Smoothing Iron

Stone from Delphi

Making Strange

The Birthplace


A Bat on the Road

A Hazel Stick for Catherine Ann

A Kite for Michael and Christopher

The Railway Children


Sheelagh na Gig

'Aye' (from The Loaning)

The King of the Ditchbacks

Station Island

from Sweeney Redivivus

The First Gloss

Sweeney Redivivus

In the Beech

The First Kingdom

The First Flight

Drifting Off

The Cleric

The Hermit

The Master

The Scribes


An Artist

The Old Icons

In Illo Tempore

On the Road

Villanelle for an Anniversary (1986)

from The Haw Lantern  (1987)



From the Frontier of Writing

The Haw Lantern

From the Republic of Conscience


The Stone Verdict

The Spoonbait


The Milk Factory

The Wishing Tree

Grotus and Conventina

Wolfe Tone

From the Canton of Expectation

The Mud Vision

The Disappearing Island

The Riddle

from The Cure at Troy  (1990)

Voices from Lemnos

from Seeing Things  (1991)

The Golden Bough


Man and Boy

Seeing Things

An August Night

Field of Vision

The Pitchfork

The Settle Bed

from Glanmore Revisited

A Pillowed Head

A Royal Prospect

Wheels within Wheels


from Squarings





A Transgression (1994)

from The Spirit Level (1996)

The Rain Stick


A Sofa in the Forties

Keeping Going

Two Lorries


Weighing In

St. Kevin and the Blackbird

from The Flight Path

Mycenae Lookout

The Gravel Walks


'Poet's Chair'

The Swing

Two Stick Drawings

A Call

The Errand

A Dog Was Crying Tonight in Wicklow Also

The Strand

The Walk

At the Wellhead

At Banagher



Crediting Poetry (1995)

Crediting Poetry

Index of Titles

Index of First Lines

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