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Colección Voces que dejan Huellas
Seamus Heaney

The poet speaks

voz del autor
ARGO RG 519
Record nine
1967


No encuentro un caso en que los poemas hayan cambiado al mundo,
pero lo que si hacen es cambiar el entendimiento
que la gente tiene de lo que pasa en él.
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When the poet speaks    x
Follower    x
Poor women in a city church    x
Poem for Mary    x
St Francis and the birds    x   texto
Death of a naturalist    x
Seamus Heaney

Death of a naturalist



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Seamus Heaney

Stepping Stones

voz del autor
Faber - Penguin Audiobooks
cassete 90101
1995
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Oír el disco completo   

"Mossbawn"
Sunlight    x
Personal Helicon    x
Bogland    x
The Tollund Man    x
Punishment    x
Strange Fruit    x
Exposure    x
Oysters    x
Casualty    x

"Glanmore Sonnets"

2, 3, 7, 10    x

"Station Island"

VII    x
Ugolino    x

"The Haw Lantern"

Alphabets    x
From the Republic of Conscience    x

"Clearances"

Prologue, 2, 3, 5, 8    x
The Wishing Tree    x
Fosterling    x

"Lightnings"

i, ii, vi, vii, viii    x

"Crossings"

xxvii, xxxii, xxxiii, xxxiv    x
Tollund    x
St Kevin and the Blackbird    x   texto
Mint    x
At the Wellhead    x


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Seamus Heaney

Beowulf
A new translation


voz de Seamus Heaney
Faber - Penguin Audiobooks
3 CD´s
2000
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Capítulo 1    x
Capítulo 2    x
Capítulo 3    x
Capítulo 4    x
Capítulo 5    x
Capítulo 6    x
Capítulo 7    x
Capítulo 8    x
Capítulo 9    x
Capítulo 10    x
Capítulo 11    x
Capítulo 12    x
Capítulo 13    x
Capítulo 14    x
Capítulo 15    x
Capítulo 16    x
Capítulo 17    x
Capítulo 18    x
Capítulo 19    x
Capítulo 20    x
Capítulo 21    x
Capítulo 22    x
Capítulo 23    x
Capítulo 24    x
Capítulo 25    x
Capítulo 26    x
Capítulo 27    x
Capítulo 28    x
Capítulo 29    x

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Seamus Heaney textos

St Kevin and the Blackbird

And then there was St Kevin and the blackbird.
The saint is kneeling, arms stretched out, inside
His cell, but the cell is narrow, so

One turned-up palm is out the window, stiff
As a crossbeam, when a blackbird lands
And lays in it and settles down to nest.

Kevin feels the warm eggs, the small breast, the tucked
Neat head and claws and, finding himself linked
Into the network of eternal life,

Is moved to pity: now he must hold his hand
Like a branch out in the sun and rain for weeks
Until the young are hatched and fledged and flown.

*

And since the whole thing's imagined anyhow,
Imagine being Kevin. Which is he?
Self-forgetful or in agony all the time

From the neck on out down through his hurting forearms?
Are his fingers sleeping? Does he still feel his knees?
Or has the shut-eyed blank of underearth

Crept up through him? Is there distance in his head?
Alone and mirrored clear in love's deep river,
'To labour and not to seek reward,' he prays,
A prayer his body makes entirely
For he has forgotten self, forgotten bird
And on the riverbank forgotten the river's name.




St Francis and the Birds


When Francis preached love to the birds
They listened, fluttered, throttled up
Into the blue like a flock of words
Released for fun from his holy lips.
Then wheeled back, whirred about his head,
Pirouetted on brothers' capes.
Danced on the wing, for sheer joy played
And sang, like images took flight.
Which was the best poem Francis made,
His argument true, his tone light.


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