My favourite love poem barely checks out such as for instance a love poem at all. In Seamus Heaney’s “Scaffolding,” the belated Irish poet compares the wedding he shares along with his spouse Marie not to 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 try out of the scaffolding; / Make sure planks won’t slide at busy points, / Secure all ladders, tighten bolted joints;” — work that’s perhaps maybe not used on the edifice it self but supports the more strive to come. Their care just takes care of “when the job’s done,” when “all this comes down” to show “walls of yes and solid rock.” Such, he suggests, is love: that we now have built our wall. if you place when you look at the time and effort, enthusiast and beloved can “let the scaffolds fall / Confident”
I really like much about that poem — its solidness, its succinctness, its easy, workmanlike quality. Nearly all of all though, I adore just exactly how utterly unromantic it really is. In five sharp couplets, Heaney reminds us that love — and wedding particularly — is mysticism that is n’t. It’s maybe not guesswork. It will be has nothing at all to do with stars aligning. No, love is labour, and like most work that is good takes quite a while to create. 继续阅读