Seamus Heaney Died at 74

We Sorrowfully confirm that Seamus Heaney, A great and nobel irish poet is no more between us. Mr-Heaney was graced with laureate in literature 1995 & left us at age of 74 in Dublin.

Seamus Heaney Life-Anatommy

Seamus Heaney was Born in  (Castledawson) Northern-Ireland at 13 April 1939 and died at age of 74 in Dublin-Ireland (30 August 2013).
Seamus life period is 1966–2013 & he was Poet, playwright and translator by occupation. 
     
His Notable work include 

• Death of a Naturalist
• Beowulf (translation)
• District and Circle
• The Spirit Level

Seamus Heanay was Awarded by numerous International/national awards throughout his life some of his Notable award(s) were as below

• Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize, 1968
• E. M. Forster Award, 1975
• Nobel Prize in Literature, 1995
• Commandeur de l'Ordre des Arts et Lettres, 1996
• Saoi of Aosdána, 1997
• Golden Wreath of Poetry, 2001
• T. S. Eliot Prize, 2006
• The Griffin Trust for Excellence in Poetry Lifetime Recognition Award, 2012

Seamus Heaney was married with Ann Devlin in 1965 and has two childs named Michael

Christopher & Catherine Ann.

Seamus Heaney Death Causes :
Seamus Heaney was hospitalized after he had suffered a stroke in 2006.
In an address, the president Michael D. Higgins of Ireland, himself a poet, he praised "the contribution of Mr. Heaney to the republics of letters, conscience and humanity.
Enda Kenny, the Irish prime minister, said that the death of Mr. Heaney had brought "the great sorrow to Ireland, to the language and literature."

Seamus Heaney Life Contributions:
Seamus Heaney was renowned for the work that powerfully evoked to the beauty and blood that together have come to define the modern Irish condition. The author of more than a dozen collections of poetry, as well as essays and critical work for the stage, repeatedly explored the struggle and uncertainties that have afflicted their homeland, achieving simultaneously lead free of the controversy.

Seamus Heaney (pronounced HEE-nee), who had made his home in Dublin since the 1970s, it was already known to a broad audience for the white hair profuse and stentorian voice that agree to their vocation. Held chairs in some of the world leading universities, including Harvard, where, starting in the 1980s, he gave classes on a regular basis for many years; Oxford; and the University of California, Berkeley.
As the trade magazine publishers Weekly observed in 1995, Seamus Heaney "has an aura, if not a power of the star, shared by few contemporary poets, spewing out both of their traits and leonine sense not pompous of civic responsibility as the immediate accessibility of their lines."

During his work, Mr. Heaney was consumed with morality. In their hands, a swamp of peat is not simply a flagship feature of the Irish landscape; it is also a spiritual marsh, evoking the profound ethical enigmas that have penetrated a long time the place. 

"Yeats, in spite of being fully known, in spite of his public role, it was not really nothing like the celebrity or, frankly, the ability to touch people in the way that Seamus Heaney did," Mr. Muldoon, a winner of the Pulitzer Prize and the editor of the poetry of the new yorker, said in an interview on Friday. "Almost thought it was indistinguishable from the country. Found a rock star that also proved to be a poet."

Seamus Heaney is rapt attention, as I once said, "words as carriers of history and mystery. " His poetry, which had a quality epiphanic, was covered with references to pagan myth - celtic, of course, but also that of ancient Greece. 
Seamus Heaney style, linguistically glare, missing however in the dark that you can attend the poetic pyrotechnics.

Seamus Heaney poems  could embody a dark melancholy, swampy, but the most of the times also reported growing wild the joy of being alive.
The result - work which is still significantly subtly work franco - made to Seamus Heaney one of the poets the most widely read in the world.

Examining the collection of  Seamus Heaney "north" in the New York Review of Books in 1976, the Irish poet Richard Murphy wrote: "Its original power, which up to the harshest critics are folded with the respect, is that you can give the feeling already that reads his poems that really does what it describes. His words not only mean what they say, dream to its meaning."

Mr. Heaney made his reputation with his debut volume, “Death of a Naturalist,” published in 1966. In “Digging,” a poem from the collection, he explored the earthy roots of his art:
Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests; 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.