Seamus Heaney

Rookie (April 13,1939 - August 30, 2013 / Castledàwson, County Londonderry)

Seamus Heaney
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Seamus Justin Heaney was an Irish poet, playwright, translator and lecturer, and the recipient of the 1995 Nobel Prize in Literature. In the early 1960s he became a lecturer in Belfast after attending university there, and began to publish poetry. He lived in Sandymount, Dublin from 1972 until his death.
Heaney was a professor at Harvard from 1981 to 1997 and its Poet in Residence from 1988 to 2006. From 1989 to 1994 he was also the Professor of Poetry at Oxford and in 1996 was made a Commandeur de l'Ordre des Arts et Lettres. Other awards that Heaney received include the Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize (1968), the E. M. Forster Award (1975), the PEN Translation Prize (1985), the Golden ... more »

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Comments about Seamus Heaney

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  • Luna Eclipse (5/17/2018 7:43:00 AM)

    Don't care. I'm only here for my English class that I don't give a f**k about... :)

  • 696969696 (5/9/2018 8:38:00 AM)

    i ur mom over and over and over againj

  • Pattypoo (4/23/2018 1:59:00 PM)

    Does anyone know the poem by Heaney which talks about the Peace Agreement and open border in Ireland?

  • Autisticbuzz (3/22/2018 4:39:00 AM)

    hutchy loves this man I don't but I love eatin a good sloppy poo

  • Jeff 54 (3/19/2018 9:32:00 AM)

    off! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

  • bdjobcareer (3/4/2018 8:51:00 PM)

    I am very happy to read the poems of Heaney. Most of his poetry repletes with various symbols..

  • dannesha young (2/16/2018 2:37:00 PM)

    i love learning about poets it is very fun to learn about them

  • William B Yeets (1/30/2018 12:11:00 PM)

    He has written amazing pieces of art and wouldn’t have stopped, even before death. This is a man who has had amazing intentions.

  • disbihs empy (12/20/2017 9:08:00 AM)

    i cant read how me ment like him

  • im am komy (12/20/2017 9:01:00 AM)

    i enjoy his poems to an extent but he ded so i cant carry on liking him

Read all 18 comments »
Best Poem of Seamus Heaney


My father worked with a horse-plough,
His shoulders globed like a full sail strung
Between the shafts and the furrow.
The horse strained at his clicking tongue.

An expert. He would set the wing
And fit the bright steel-pointed sock.
The sod rolled over without breaking.
At the headrig, with a single pluck

Of reins, the sweating team turned round
And back into the land. His eye
Narrowed and angled at the ground,
Mapping the furrow exactly.

I stumbled in his hob-nailed wake,
Fell sometimes on the polished sod;
Sometimes he rode me on his ...

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