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Wednesday, September 10, 2008


Seamus "Chuckles" Heaney was born on 13 April, 1939 at Mossbawn, Co. Derry. The only son of poor black Northern Irish sharecroppers, he survived on twigs, leaves and Weetabix for the first decade of his life. This upbringing, along with the freedom he gained from it, continues to influence his poetry, instilling its savage rhythms. At the age of twelve, he killed his first hedgehog. With its roasting over a bin-full of rubbish, young Seamus knew he had at last attained manhood.


Muldoon has published ten collections of poetry. These are For Once It Isn't Bloody Raining (1973), Sling-backs and Espadrilles (1977), (It Was The Smell) (1980), Silly Made-Up Words (1983), Meeting The Fenians - Only Joking! (1987) (It was also, for a brief time, known as Occupational Hazards), Murdock - The A-Team's Mystery (1990), Canals full of Chilli (1994), Hey! (1998) and Moi, Sand and Gravel (2002), with which he cemented his reputation as poet dealing with concrete examples of life in Ireland and America, and for which he won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry. In response to the prize his most recent volume of poetry, published in 2006, is entitled Hoarse Platitudes.


Yes, Seamus Heaney and Paul Muldoon have uncyclopaedia entries!


Background Artist said...

how dare you display this focal i frithshuidiu composition!!!

how dare you even dare to think for a billi-second that these two Ard Ollamhs of this proud and ancient bog be gebborahed in this appallingly unworshippy way, which proves my contention that English language poets like you need to be immediately dismissed from tenure, taken out, flogged, put in the stocks, publically urinated on by a braying mob from the Isle of Unhappy and now you've shown yr true colours as an agent of the imperial dark-star force from that thoroughly dispicable and wonderfully jolly jag manufacturing megatropolis of Mucknarush in Mullingar, you wickle Bwitish space cadet bestriding the hallowed halls of Hull sirrah - 'tis time to wield
Claíomh Solais and sling from the tip of Sleivmore, of a hawk and salmon pip pipping hurrah!!! do you think Daithi messer from the cobbled screed of what trinity of light configured you from draíocht you draíodóir, plastic pretender, fake conker player; you're barred!!!!

a drúth you are Dave and the coirí filíochta of the one person PM prolifiration imitation industries which support 65% of the poets on this global speck, in swirly tripilate Amergin's mister S's happen in the music of this very very berry eating hazel nut eo fis salmon of wisdom fizzing on the imbas foronsai daithi swift and nimble mate.

Oh yea, o yea o yah, not in there
dámh you drisac apprentice satirist reaching for the stars, this is an illegal satrical text, and any reproduction of it is punishable by the death of air-wishy kisses, by the cáinte a rung up, fully ticketed in the Réalta na bhFile, tong a toing mo thuath at the throne of the poets in Tara in 2004.

So sing me the Mossbawn magus, the Moy man of Paul who i saw in Damar hall last Novemeber when he read the Immram and i connected to source, found Abraham's hebrew the she brew ban-draoi and then with nowt but a few used bog-rolls, a mind and a heart, fell from the perch of my ridge-pole Cli, upped from grades five to six, just as the mop headed man rustling his magic, asked

*has anyone a pen*

and i, quick as the winking flash of the eel me and trev the tramp used to stop a mob of tourists on the grand canal, drew them in and made our dan, the bri of one's integral ability stand at the face and stream down two cliffs, to the fully wiki brancjed fili of gra agus siochainn with incantation from the tips, Larkin looking glum, the vatic cad with an OBE and simon say, it's all sleight of tongue, mandy and Motion dried up to a see through Museless man who does not know his cauldrons within, dicate what wyrd will come...

oolmvav is the word verification oolamh..spooky.

Anonymous said...