In this piece, Anna Rose Heaney remembers her grandad, Seamus, and shares one of her favourite poems of his.
It is a weird position to be in, to critique poems written by your grandad about your granny!
It isn’t always easy writing about someone you know personally, especially when it’s your grandad, who is known in Ireland and all over the world as a Nobel laureate. I never knew Seamus as a poet; I knew him as my grandad, who loved ice cream sundaes, Copella apple juice, my granny’s shepard’s pie, writing postcards, spending time reading and writing in Wicklow and having big family lunches.
So when asked about my grandad, that is what I think of, not my favourite poem.
Only in recent years, have I actually studied his poetry, which is a very strange experience! I have been asked by past teachers about my own feelings on his poems and what they mean. Well, needless to say, at 6 years old I was not talking to my grandad about which poetic techniques he used in his poems. It is a weird position to be in, to critique poems written by your grandad about your granny! This being said, I have been able to have incredible experiences because of him.
Although I don’t have a favourite Poem, I really like the poem Carlo. The poem was written about my family’s dog Carlo and the unconditional love that dogs have for us.
I find it amazing to think that while to me Seamus is just my grandad, to others he is a name on a poem whose work resonates with them and connects with them on a personal level.
Carlo by Seamus Heaney
I’m afraid the millennium
means nothing to Carlo.
My heart aches for him
with one eye gone blind
and his whole body slowed.
His bark is still loud
but not as aggressive,
not that rampant “Fuck off”
of a dog in his prime,
hurling and barrelling
round the back yard.
I undervalued
all that at the time
his just being there
like a bolt from the garden,
woofing and panting
or worrying plastic
bottles or bags,
our mad perforator
and show-off performer.
He once bit a writer
or better say nipped—
regrettably “nipped”
has to be the mot juste.
He went wild at jet trails.
You’d be conscious of nothing
but sunbeat and lawn-heat
when he’d work up a snarl
like a slow Cape Canaveral
burn-up and lift-off,
then launch himself into barking
into the blue.
Then quit and come running
like a form of forgiveness.
Now I’d like to relive
those years of aloofness,
am sorry I didn’t
give and take more
notice and pleasure
each hour of each day.
I’d stroke him, of course,
at night and at times
when he didn’t expect it,
my sudden meltdowns
of hapless affection,
but mostly the case
was live and let live.
Which is hardly enough.
The film in his eye,
his blindsided trot
reminds me of that.
Even his tail
tum-tumming the floor
As I come through the door
Reminds me of that.
Ever more slowly
tum-tumming the floor.