Neil Serven

While I was out of town, safely removed from the noxious gases of the Internet, I learned secondhand of the passing of Seamus Heaney.

I came to his work via a course on New Critical Theory at Merrimack. I would like to think it says more about Heaney’s power of image than it does any of my teenage sensibilities that the poem of his I remember best is the one about the drowning cats, the ‘scraggy wee shits.’

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