“Words dance on.

It is the stilled voice

that breaks the heart.”

I wrote those words nearly to the hour ten years ago as news came in that Seamus Heaney had died.

                                                                          *****

My only non-working holiday this year (unless I win the Lotto!) was spent last weekend in Bellaghy, Co. Derry.  Days full of poetry, and all I had to do was listen, take it in, and admire the breadth and magnificence of it all.

On Thursday I drove up to Bellaghy – the town close to where Seamus Heaney grew up, where he is buried, and where the wonderful Seamus Heaney Home Place is located. Today is the 10^th anniversary of his death: Cathy Brown and the staff at the Home Place created a wonderful series of events to commemorate the occasion.

It was a long drive, and I managed to take the ‘scenic’ route. But part of a journey is the getting there. Still, it was lovely to see friendly faces at Dewhamill B&B. I had stayed with Margaret and Patrick when I visited Bellaghy five years ago and was greeted like an old friend. They are as close to Lough Beg as you could be without being flooded. I had a view of Church Island from my bedroom. These names will be familiar to anyone who has read Heaney’s work.

View of Lough Beg from Dewhamill (c) Karen J McDonnell

On Friday morning I headed over The Strand at Lough Beg and took photos and a video or two on the phone. I sat in the car with the windows down, read the signs, and listened to the birds. I felt the beginning of a poem coming on. No harm – I really need to get new work spinning around in my head and onto the page. I used the recorder on the phone for the first time.  Usually, I scrawl in the notebook. Anyway, there was time to transcribe into the notebook when I got to Toomebridge where I was meeting my cousins for lunch. A five-hour lunch that could have gone on much longer except that I had to get back to the Home Place! It was so lovely to catch up with them. Times like that are precious.

View of Church Island from The Strand at Lough Beg (c) Karen J McDonnell

Paul Muldoon opened the weekend’s events with a wonderful reading. Going back through his work: “We’re at the third last collection; the end is in sight.” I’ve heard Paul read his work on radio and was at two of his Rogue Oliphant gigs in recent years, but I’d never been to one of his readings. It was such fun – he’s the consummate performer; a fine reader who is capable of carrying the audience along with him. Totally engaging.

Photo (c) Seamus Heaney Home Place

Dawn, Saturday. I’ve been awake for ages trying to fight it – but of course, you can’t.  When a poem is in your head, it demands to be set down. Experience tells us that no, you won’t remember it in the morning. Not exactly as it is now. Foundling on the doorstep, waiting to be properly dressed and given its space in the world. So, out of the bed and out with the notebook. Second part scribbled down. Now we’re getting somewhere. A peek through the curtains at the light creeping over Lough Beg, and back into bed for me!

Outside the Poets Café in Bellaghy

Later in the morning I sat out in the main street with a coffee and redrafted the whole thing. Then it was back to the Home Place for the afternoon. Saturday and Sunday afternoons were given to 10 readings in total. What a treasury of poets and poems.

Saturday brought readings and meditations from Alice Lyons, Niall Campbell, Emma Must, Martin Dyar, and Zaffar Kunial.  Such riches.

There was time for dinner with friends from Ballyvaughan who happened to visit the Home Place and decided to stay for the weekend. As we joked, you can do nuthin’! Then back in to the Helicon Theatre for an evening of music with Colm Mac An Iomaire. I was a tired and happy bunny as I headed back to base.

Before I left Dewhamill I had a great conversation with Patrick, a man who is part of the landscape in which he lives. He took out a few boxes and unwrapped the most amazing finds he has made by the lake and on his land. Knapped flint cores, scrapers, axe heads; all beautiful to hold and imagine who worked with them. Instinctively, I held some in my right hand; the sharpened edge, the feel of the thing, where each smooth concave was situated, told me that the person who had used the piece thousands of years ago had been right-handed. (I’m a citóg). One flint – we agreed it must have been a scraper – was neat, small in Patrick’s hand. Used by a woman or a child, I guessed. What a privilege to have seen and held those artefacts.

And a privilege to have heard more poets on Sunday afternoon. The day gifted us: Sarah Clancy, Nandi Jola, Rachel Conventry, Mark Pajak, and Owen Sheers. I had to leave a bit early to make the journey home.

It was a magical weekend of connecting and celebrating connection.

I realised late on Sunday that it was five years to the date since I’d visited Seamus Heaney’s grave. I did a blog post about it then. It was also ten years since I had done my first reading – as ‘a professional’.  I didn’t feel very professional then, but I was treated like one. I was in the middle of my final exams as a mature student at university, and the then director of the 2013 Strokestown Festival – Martin Dyar – contacted the director of creative writing, offering a reading to a student. I was nominated, and found myself on the programme paired with Galway poet Sarah Clancy.  It was the first time we met.

When my first book was being published, Martin wrote a blurb for it. As the editor of Poetry Ireland’s recent anthology, Vital Signs: Poems of Illness & Healing, he included one of my poems. Sarah is one of the most inclusive people I know – quietly supportive of fellow writers. It was a joy – ten years on – to be a part of the poetry community, listening to Martin read on Saturday and to hear Sarah and Rachel Coventry read on Sunday. There was also the fellowship of friends made via social media who I then get to meet in real life – connected by writing and sharing our work: Michael Farry, Noelle Lynskey, and Nandi Jola, and Cathy at the Home Place.

Yes, it was joyful. At the heart of it all, Seamus Heaney, and his family who were there at all the events, supporting new writing, celebrating their Seamus. That’s what struck me most: when people referred to ‘Heaney’ and ‘Heaney’s work’, it was the family’s Seamus. Their husband, dad, brother, neighbour was being discussed. Not the subject of the reviews, accolades, and academic papers. Seamus. Their Seamus. And ten years on, their generosity and kind sharing continues. How lucky we are.

In September 2013, I wrote an article – a ‘month’s mind’ for Heaney. The Irish Times reprinted it for the fifth anniversary. Here is a link to it. 

Again. Thanks for the dance, Seamus. The voice is stilled. But others speak on.

The word dance continues.

(c) Karen J McDonnell