Last night, hunting inspiration,
I turned again to Mr Heaney.
Sometimes just one word
of his is enough to
let some of my own spill -
not tonight though.
Instead I found a bug,
spread-eagled inside 'North'.
As perfect as poetry
its dessicated carcass
imprinted sure as memory
amongst the great man's thoughts,
and I smiled to think it had
expired willingly upon the page -
buzzing - like the rest of us.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Wow! Have you sent it to him yet? I think he's be very flattered. This is a favourite of mine.