A poet died. His name was Seamus Heaney, prize winner – a Pulitzer. Somehow I’ve never heard of him. True for the vast majority of us, I think. We don’t read poets on a daily basis. Pulitzer winners seem far away, residing in a rarefied, intellectual stratosphere . . . almost foreboding . . . distant. Unfamiliar. Now he’s dead, we see him everywhere, on TV news, the Internet and Facebook. Who’s not heard his name this week? Been curious enough to Google? Did you watch him read on your computer? You can’t buy publicity like this. He’s everywhere – gained international attention. Poet’s words now part of every day. Such potent and yet subtle images. I’m thinking . Wow. He’s really good, these profound, simple wisdoms, written as though without effort.
Damn, I’m sorry he is dead. But were he not, quite possibly I would have never read his work.
Death is the greatest of career moves. But I plan to wait before I make my own.
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