I can't understand these chaps who go round American universities explaining how they write poems: It's like going round explaining how you sleep with your wife.
'Groping back to bed after a piss
I part thick curtains, and am startled by
The rapid clouds, the moon’s cleanliness.
Four o’clock: wedge-shadowed gardens lie
Under a cavernous, a wind-picked sky.
There’s something laughable about this,
The way the moon dashes through clouds that blow
Loosely as cannon-smoke to stand apart
(Stone-coloured light sharpening the roofs below)
High and preposterous and separate—
Lozenge of love! Medallion of art!
O wolves of memory! Immensements! No,
One shivers slightly, looking up there.
The hardness and the brightness and the plain
Far-reaching singleness of that wide stare
Is a reminder of the strength and pain
Of being young; that it can’t come again,
But is for others undiminished somewhere. '.
Seamus Heaney (1939 – 2013) was an Irish poet, and lecturer, and the recipient of the 1995 Nobel Prize in Literature. He lived in Sandymount, Dublin, from 1976 until his death.