DUBLIN (AP) — Seamus Heaney, Ireland's foremost poet who won the Nobel literature prize in 1995, died Friday after a half-century exploring the wild beauty of Ireland and the political torment within the nation's soul. He was 74.
Heaney's family and publisher, Faber & Faber, said in a statement that Heaney died in a Dublin hospital. He had been recuperating from a stroke since 2006.
The Northern Ireland-born Heaney was widely considered Ireland's greatest poet since William Butler Yeats. He wrote 13 collections of poetry, two plays, four prose works on the process of poetry, and many other works.
Heaney was the third Irishman to win the Nobel Prize for Literature, joining Yeats and Samuel Beckett.
The eldest of eight children, Heaney went to Catholic boarding school in Northern Ireland's second-largest town, Londonderry.
Life in 1950s Londonderry — where Catholics outnumbered Protestants two to one but were gerrymandered from power — provided Heaney his first real taste of injustice and ambiguity Irish-style.
His early work was rooted in vivid description of rural experience, but gradually he wedded this to the frictions, deceptions and contradictions rife of his divided homeland.
In 1972, the most deadly year of Northern Ireland's conflict, Heaney left Queen's University in Belfast to settle in the Republic of Ireland. That year, he published "Wintering Out," a collection of poems that offered only oblique references to the unrest in the north.
His follow-up 1975 collection, "North," captured the Irish imagination with his pitch-perfect sense of the evils of sectarianism.
The forb, Snow-on-the-mountain grows from July to October. The name of this euphorbia comes from the resemblance of a snowy mountain with they spread across a hill, which they do from Central to East Texas on both dry and moist soil. Its sap is poisonous. The plant provides food for insects, such as the ones I spotted on this stand of them, stone flies wasps, daubers, flower flies, grasshoppers, and a handful of Queen butterflies.
Nearby the stand of Snow-on-the-mountain, sunflowers continue to thrive into late August, though some show signs of chomps from insects, such as this one below.
Earlier this year, Katie rescued two nestling Great-horned owls that had hopped out of their nest, a barrel in a barn. Sickened by West Nile virus, one of them died, and the other became blind. The blind one is growing up at Wild Bird Rescue.
The city of Wichita Falls, founded in the late 1800s, has a rich history in aviation. The workforce Sheppard Air Force Base, coming from all over the nation and world, infuses the community with dynamic new culture. In addition, Sheppard collaborates generously with the city in maintaining the municipal airport, soon to become regional airport. A nearby airport, Kickapoo, receives a large number of aircraft daily, from Cubs to Citations, and is the meeting place of the "Ol' Codgers" group of pilots, veterans of past wars, or not, who enjoy talking shop. Hobbyists devoted to aviation hangar their aircraft at Wichita Valley airport. On the edge of Lake Wichita, there lies a runway, now covered with growth, with buildings and hangars at the southwest end, still shown on a sectional as the Tom Danaher airport, where during Tom's younger years pilots would gather every weekend.
It came as no surprise to me, and I felt charmed by it, that the community in 2007 chose to call the newly-constructed highway ramps "Falls Flyover." Here is an iPhone image I took as we "flew" over one of the ramps. In the background, we see the Attebury grain elevators built in the early Twentieth century by Jack Kemp.
MyMrMallory and I headed out into the wheat field from which, we thought, we could glimpse some of the Perseids. Thunderstorms popping up in the early evening surprised us, but we felt that eventually, the sky would clear and the meteors would show in all their impressive beauty. The rain goddess had other things in mind: We got drenched. First, after a couple of hours of enjoying the view of the thunderstorms all around us, when one loud, ear-breaking crack of lightning nearly sent us off our little lawn chairs. Soon, the rain began in buckets. No meteor shower for us last night, nor sunset, nor photos of the crescent Moon near Venus. Instead, we were treated to other remarkable displays by nature.
Sunset upon our arrival to the middle of the wheat field.
A small shaft of rain appeared in the distance while we unpacked chairs and cameras.
The small rain became a sight to see!
We started noticing other shafts of rain . . .
. . . to the east . . .
. . . to the north and the storm that drenched us in the field and all the way home.
Listen, will you? I think that . . . literature, poetry, music and love make the world go round . . . while mathematics explains things; I fill my life with them, then go walking in snowy woods. Let us go then, you and I like two etherized patients floating through life, together feeling prufrockian. DDB Jr. makes my world go 'round; during his absence, Pachelbel fills it up. One summer I sailed across the Atlantic Ocean, then through the Gulf of Finland to reach Saint Petersburg; I pursued Joseph Brodsky in its alley ways. I dream of making that two summers. I read “Biking to Electra;” found my way in a Jaguar car, and glanced at the flashing steel grasshoppers at sunset. I’ll follow K.O.P.’s footsteps after he followed N.Scott Momaday’s; find warmth and inspiration on a rainy mountain. Throw chinese coins for the I Ching. Save the whales, the spotted owl, the woman in toil. Cast a fly for trout; my memories of fly fishing under the sunny blue Colorado sky remain; I yearn to build more . . . with more trophy Browns. Listen for the swan’s calls on the Baltic Sea. Feel KKII's joy, his arms spread wide in Yazilikaya. Good night, Jimmy Durante, where ever you are.