My love that is favourite poem checks out like a love poem at all. In Seamus Heaney’s “Scaffolding,” the belated Irish poet compares the wedding he shares together with his wife Marie to not ever a flower or perhaps a springtime or birdsong but to your scaffolding that masons erect when beginning construction on a building.
Masons, Heaney writes, “Are careful to check out of the scaffolding; / Make sure planks won’t slide at busy points, / Secure all ladders, tighten bolted joints;” — work that’s perhaps maybe maybe not used on the edifice it self but supports the more work in the future. Their care just takes care of “when the job’s done,” when “all this comes down” to show “walls of certain and solid stone.” Such, he suggests, is love: if you place when you look at the time and effort, enthusiast and beloved can “let the scaffolds fall / Confident that people have actually built our wall surface.”
I enjoy much about that poem — its solidness, its succinctness, its easy, workmanlike quality. The majority of all though, I like just just exactly how utterly unromantic it really is. In five sharp couplets, Heaney reminds us that love — and marriage specially — isn’t mysticism. „Deep and significant intimate accessory could be the product, perhaps perhaps not the catalyst, of the relationship“ weiterlesen