Recently, while mulling over my next mystery to write, I've been reading a lot of poetry. A couple of weeks ago, I stumbled on this beautiful collection of Seamus Heaney's poems—100 of them over the course of his publishing life, compiled by his children and wife.
I love poetry and have read it off and on, quite haphazardly, through the years, so I've encountered his name. Also, a former writing teacher quoted one of his poems often—the first one in this collection, as a matter of fact: "Digging." Beautiful language and lingering images. But I had never settled down to read more of his poetry until I got this collection.
I am simply spellbound! His poems paint portraits that come alive, tell stories in scenes that put you right there. He retells history. He was an Irish poet and has that magical, musical way with words. (I have always been a W. B. Yeats fan for the same reasons.)
I purposely have been reading these poems just a few at a time, so as to savor them and not let them all run together in a mishmash. And I highly recommend this book for a soothing entry into places that beckon on a cold, rainy day—which is what we've been having off and on lately in Braga.
How about you? Are you a poetry lover? If so, who is your favorite poet? (I'm always interested in recommendations.) Have you read Heaney's poetry before?
