The poem
There, in the corner, staring at his drink. The cap juts like a gantry's crossbeam, Cowling plated forehead and sledgehead jaw. Speech is clamped in the lips' vice.
That fist would drop a hammer on a Catholic- Oh yes, that kind of thing could start again; The only Roman collar he tolerates Smiles all round his sleek pint of porter.
Mosaic imperatives bang home like rivets; God is a foreman with certain definite views Who orders life in shifts of work and leisure. A factory horn will blare the Resurrection.
He sits, strong and blunt as a Celtic cross, Clearly used to silence and an armchair: Tonight the wife and children will be quiet At slammed door and smoker's cough in the hall.
heaney wis med wae it wen he wrote this yasssss
I am studying Englih Literature in the town of kongalojoo and i strongly believe that this poem is a fallacy which distinguishes itself from the other poems of Heaney in that he is a personally ciriticisng a boat man as drunk and irresponsible with one of the most innate abilities when it comes to the skills of sailing.