Belfast Bits

Inspired by our interview yesterday we got to thinking just how much goes on in Belfast city and how much it has changed and grown over the years. Here are a few pics we found online from way back when

Source

Source

So much has come from this and been inspired by this beautiful city as well, we wanted to mention a couple of poems that always last in our memory.

It was while working at Queen’s University that Larkin wrote most of his famous collection of poems, The Less Deceived.

Source

This is one of his poems that always makes a lasting impression

Philip Larkin – This Be The Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

They may not mean to, but they do.

They fill you with the faults they had

And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn

By fools in old-style hats and coats,

Who half the time were soppy-stern

And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.

It deepens like a coastal shelf.

Get out as early as you can,

And don’t have any kids yourself.

Seamus Heaney

In 1957, Heaney travelled to Belfast to study English Language and Literature at Queen’s University Belfast. During his time in Belfast he found a copy of Ted Hughes‘s Lupercal, which spurred him to write poetry. “Suddenly, the matter of contemporary poetry was the material of my own life” he has said. He graduated in 1961 with a First Class Honours degree. Source

This poem is one of our favourites

Digging by Seamus Heaney
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pin rest; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.

What beautiful things have come from the city where you currently live?

It’s worth checking out to help inspire your own creations

Happy Weekend

Handsome and Pretty

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