On home ground
An Irishwoman’s Diary: A Derry festival becomes a Heaney tribute
‘In his programme note, Seamus Heaney had described the On Home Ground Poetry Festival as “an act of faith in the art of poetry” and acknowledged the familial quality.’ Photograph: Matt Kavanagh
It had not gone to plan. The On Home Ground Poetry Festival held at Magherafelt, Co Derry last weekend, was to be opened by Seamus Heaney, the festival’s patron. It would have been yet another remarkable occasion created by a poet with a genius for language. “Important Places: A Reading with Commentary” was his intended address.
South Derry remained the poet’s spiritual home and inspiration. Mossbawn, the family farm, was the cradle of his art, the centre of his world, its omphalos as he described it. He had been born there, in the townland of Tamniaran, near Castledawson, just down the road from Magherafelt, the market town in which the poet’s mother did her shopping. This is Heaney country, that small store, this lane, that tree, Broad Street where a car bomb blast would destroy the bus station, making the poet recall that years earlier his mother had met him on his return from school in Derry; that glimpse of an island on the lake. In his poems, places have been immortalised, as was his friend Sean Browne, murdered by the loyalist paramilitaries who had abducted him from the local GAA club ground.
In his programme note Seamus Heaney had described the On Home Ground Poetry Festival as “an act of faith in the art of poetry” and acknowledged the familial quality. “Different generations, different styles, but an at homeness among them all, poets, painters and prose writers. And nobody feels more at home than myself.” The tragic loss of a man loved as intensely as his work is, and will continue to be, caused the organisers, Eugene and Geraldine Kielt, to instead plan a tribute, with poets reading from Heaney’s poems.
On the approach to the large marquee was a poster of the cover of Stepping Stones (2008), Dennis O’Driscoll’s inspired record of Heaney’s responses to intrepidly asked and intuitive questions. It will now endure as the autobiography he never did write. The portrait photograph may well be one of the finest ever taken of Heaney and it had been enlarged to the size of a window, gazing down at the local people, arriving to hear their friend’s beautiful words, spoken by others. Anyone reading a Heaney poem aloud is well aware of how very audacious an act it seems, attempting to read work written by a poet whose speaking voice was so musical, so true to his place and to his art, a unique pairing.