Sunday, August 02, 2015

Dublin, December 2nd 2009.

I have seen Heaney around on the scene here, and it is reverence alright which surrounds the person. He radiates a very honest glow, of the responsible person, a public smiling man. Personally, I like his work and in his prose especially, Heaney proves to me, why he is the best well known poet occupying a unique position in the realm of our Language.

He is immersed in and founds the intellectual-creative bass of his practice, on an ancient poetic very few know nor care about, enough to make it the very centre of our assays and travails through consciousness.

We all have our blindspots, and if Heaney is one, so be it. But at some level we need connect the theory with the life; seperate the textual from the human. Realise we are all the same, none of us better nor worse, life a game, the quarrel with self, rhetoric and poetry, two of the written arts. One the forensic demolisher and builder making the technology of the intellect, compliant and decanting what it is we wish to do, into a printed page of defence and attack, the apologia, explanation of what it is, this thing filíocht called verbal magic, its original semantic import from so far back, 1000 years before the New World’s birth, on the pages time forgot, poetry the word in this Language of the 2-300 million that is, 1 percent of the 1.8 billion with a functioning level of literacy in English – from one word to the lot, an audience of potential luvvies, the one percent of everyone with a passion for verse, one in a hundred of us, a majority agree, the Mossbawn magus is the one to watch, beat, equal and..
One brief flash of reality that is: us alone and as the collective seven bill, two of which have some smattering of the language manifest in the light vibration of this life, reality our consciousness, we show ourselves via a technology of the intellect, alone, us lens experiencing consciousness in our physical container, in this Language. What is important is Love.

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