Christopher Reid

I am going to miss sitting on Seamus Heaney's shoulder. For some reason I never did hear him live, though I saw many fine poets read in the 1980s/90s.

Heaney's family agreed to support and facilitate this project where necessary under the strict understanding no letters to family or close, non-public, friends appeared. The majority of the correspondents are poets, translators, editors and others in the publishing world. The thing that becomes most quickly apparent is that Seamus had a great show more gift for friendship, even if there isn't a letter in the volume that doesn't begin with an apology for the lateness in his reply to their letters.

The second thing is the great richness in attention he pays to the work sent to him by his friends, and that received by him (not included) by them, his gratitude is deep and buoyant.

Reading a lifetime's creative arc is fascinating, informative, invigorating. In Heaney's case though the success ultimately crowded out the silent time for writing poetry. It wasn't until late in his life that he learned to say no to the invitations to teach and speak around the world, and then it was his health that made it near impossible for him to write, as physical problems led to bouts of deep depression. Despite this though, his body of work is substantial.

Breaking the rigid agreement the last entry is a text to his wife Marie, as he was being wheeled into surgery 'Noli Timere' (do not be afraid). He died before reaching the operating theatre. show less

(Note: I always try to review poetry in my own bad verse. Apologies.)

Eliot's volume of feline-themed verse
Spawned a Broadway musical first
And a movie you might not pay to see
(But the reviews are entertaining for free).

In the spirit of that nonsensical book,
Author Reid chose to take a look
At the canine side of the equation
Finding in their quirks his inspiration.

In penning this sort of companion work,
Unfortunate comparisons always lurk:
I found these poems much less memorable,
I fear the book's show more not quite as venerable.

Eliot this fellow never will be,
His verse never rises to true poetry.
Or he may have been hampered by one simple fact:
Dogs are just not as poetic as cats. show less

A truly beautiful selection of poems. This was my favourite book for about 4 years (until supplanted by Staying Alive, which has the edge in terms of quantity but cannot surpass this in quality), and I used to carry it absolutely everywhere - I have ended up with three copies. Most of the poems are not well known, but all are excellent, and the selection is eclectic enough for the reader to avoid 'poetry fatigue' - everything feels fresh and different and inspiring, and in no sense cliched. show more

It is such a shame that more people do not own this! show less

Dull and way too wordy, though there were one or two really good poems hidden in the mix - they should have been given a much better chance to breathe. Actually by the time I'd finished the collection I really hated the woman he wrote it for, I have to say, so obviously that aspect of it didn't work for me, as surely she can't have been that irritating!

If you want top-class poetry of grief, then you're much better off with Hardy.