Frederick Robert Higgins
Biography of Frederick Robert Higgins
Frederick Robert Higgins was an Irish poet and theatre director.
Higgins was born on the west coast of Ireland in Foxford, which is located in County Mayo. He grew up in Ballivor in County Meath, and then spent the largest part of his adult life in Dublin, in a house he had built beside the River Dodder in Rathfarnham. His health was poor, and though his friends were inclined to regard him as a hypochondriac, his prediction that he would die young was accurate.
Higgins was a student of William Butler Yeats and served on the board of the Abbey Theatre from 1935 until his death. His best-known book of poetry is The Gap of Brightness (1940). He is also well known for his poem, Father and Son. He wrote a moving elegy for his fellow poet Pádraic Ó Conaire. He was generally acknowledged as a fine poet, but was less successful in his Abbey Theatre work: Frank O'Connor said unkindly that Higgins could not direct a children's poetry recitation.
He was a popular and convivial man- even Frank O'Connor, who came to regard him with deep suspicion, admitted that he was a delightful person to meet. His circle of friends included many of the leading Irish literary figures of his time, including Yeats, Padraic O Conaire, George William Russell, Lennox Robinson, and for a time Frank O'Connor. O'Connor however came to regard Higgins as untrustworthy and a troublemaker, and describes him unflatteringly in his memoir My Father's Son. For Yeats, at least Higgins seems to have had genuine affection, once remarking that he never left Yeats' house without " feeling like a thousand dollars". He was capable of great kindness and generosity to younger writers like Patrick Kavanagh.
He died suddenly of a heart attack in January 1941.
Frederick Robert Higgins's Works:
His five collections of poems are:
Salt Air (1924)
Island Blood (1925)
The Dark Breed (1927)
Arable Holdings (1933)
The Gap of Brightness (1940)
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Did you read them?
Father and Son
Only last week, walking the hushed fields
Of our most lovely Meath, now thinned by November,
I came to where the road from Laracor leads
To the Boyne river-that seems more lake than river,
Stretched in uneasy light and stript of reeds.
And walking longside an old weir
Of my people's, where nothing stirs-only the shadowed
Leaden flight of a heron up the lean air-