The first book of Seamus Heaney’s I ever purchased was Sweeney Astray at a used bookstore in Dinkytown, Minneapolis. That was in October 1986. Since then I have purchased and read many, many other books of his poetry and prose. I treasure each and every one.
By the time Heaney published Sweeny Astray in 1983, he had already written and published a number of volumes of poetry. On the day I purchased the book, a translation of a medieval Irish work called Buile Suibhne, I was more familiar with the famous Irish character of Mad Sweeney than I was of poet/translator Seamus Heaney. By the time I finished the book, I was a committed Heaney fan.
Those who are old enough to remember life before the internet, will remember that there was a time when finding information could be difficult, it was not as simple as just googling a name and sifting through hits.
In 1986, when I wanted to know more about this poet I had just “discovered,” and what other books he may have written, I had to go to the library at the University of Minnesota. I spent an entire weekend “researching” Heaney, taking notes in an old composition book I used as a journal… and days combing the shelves of various used bookstores looking for his works. Almost 25 years later, out of habit I suppose, I still find myself looking for his works when I am at used bookstores, even though I think I have almost everything he has written.
Listening with a pencil and my ear, these are some of the lines I marked:
God has exiled me from myself–soldiers, forget the man you knew.(cf. Section 14)
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –I saw the great swans, heard their callssweetly rebuking wars and battles(cf. Section 23)
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –you crowd my headand fade awayand leave me to the night.(cf. Section 25)
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –It was sheer madness to imagineany live outside of Glen Bolcain–Glen Bolcain, my pillow and heart’s ease,my Eden thick with apple trees.(cf. Section 27)– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –I wish we could fly away together,be rolling stones, birds of a feather:I’d swoop to pleasure you in flightand huddle close on the roost at night(cf. Section 32)
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –Since the shock of battleI’m a ghost of myself.(cf. Section 34)
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –Calm yourself. Come to. Rest.Come home east. Forget the west.Admit, Sweeney, you have come far
from where your heart’s affections are….…Swifter that the wind in glens,
once the figure of a champion,
a legend now, and a madman–
your exile’s over, Sweeney. Come.
(cf. Section 36)– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –Gazing down at clean gravel,to lean out over a cool well,drink a mouthful of sunlit waterand gather cress by the handful(cf. Section 44)– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –I need woodsfor consolation,some grove in Meath–or the space of Ossory.(cf. Section 45)
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –Keep me here, Christ, far awayfrom open land and flat country.Let me suffer the cold of glens.I dread the cold space of plains.(cf. Section 58)– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –My dark night has come round again.The world goes on but I returnto haunt myself. I freeze and burn.I am the bare figure of pain.(cf. Section 67)– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
Because Sweeney loved Glen BolcainI learned to love it, too….…I ask a blessing, by Sweeney’s grave.His memory flutters in my breast.His soul roosts in the tree of love.His body sinks in its clay nest(cf. Section 85)*****
ClimbingSky 
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