Seamus Heaney, who won the nobel prize for literature, died this time two years ago. I studied a few of his poems in the course of my schooling. I wasn’t crazy about them then and still wouldn’t be now. The ones I remember studying, ‘Digging’ for instance, were very much centered on life in the Irish countryside. Sods and bogs and spades. I hate the sound of that life, the lack of glamour in it. Heaney looked like a farmer too with his flyaway white hair and woolen attire. I would have preferred a glowering, gym-buff Heaney. I’m willing to accept that he was a good poet and a nice man though. What I find strange is that he appears never to have written a bad poem, never mind a bad collection of poems. How can that be? He was human. Was there not one where the rhymes were really shit or where he might’ve gone with a different set-up or different word choices? Apparently not. You only get infallible figures like that in the likes of poetry, painting, opera, classical. The ones where elites call the shots. It’s pretty conspicuous.