Seamus Heaney, a Nobel laureate in literature, is celebrated for his rich and evocative poetry that explores themes of identity, history, and human connection. Among his many works, the poem “Casualty” holds a special place, not as a traditional love poem but as a poignant meditation on loss, friendship, and the complexities of loyalty.
Published in Heaney’s 1979 collection Field Work, “Casualty” reflects the tumultuous political and social landscape of Northern Ireland during The Troubles, a period marked by sectarian conflict and violence. The poem focuses on the relationship between the speaker and a local fisherman, an unnamed man who becomes a victim of political strife. While the poem does not speak of romantic love, its emotional depth and exploration of personal loss can be interpreted as a profound expression of love and respect for humanity and individuality.
The fisherman, portrayed as a figure of quiet resilience and independence, becomes a symbol of the ordinary lives disrupted by the turmoil of the time. Heaney’s depiction of the man is intimate and compassionate, drawing attention to his habits and routines: “He would drink by himself / And raise a weathered thumb / Towards the high shelf.” These lines convey a sense of familiarity and affection, suggesting a deep connection between the speaker and the fisherman. This connection forms the emotional core of the poem, resonating as an elegy for a lost friend and a lament for the human cost of conflict.
Structured in three parts, “Casualty” employs Heaney’s characteristic blend of lyrical beauty and narrative clarity. The first section paints a vivid portrait of the fisherman’s life and personality, inviting readers into a shared space of memory and camaraderie. The second section shifts to the political context, describing the aftermath of Bloody Sunday, a tragic event in 1972 when British soldiers killed 13 unarmed civilians during a protest march in Derry. The fisherman’s death, a consequence of defying a curfew to visit the local pub, becomes a microcosm of the broader conflict, highlighting the intersection of personal choice and collective suffering.
In the final section, Heaney reflects on his own role as a poet and observer. The speaker’s contemplation of the fisherman’s fate reveals a tension between loyalty to the community and a more universal empathy. This duality is encapsulated in the lines: “But my tentative art / His turned back watches too; / He was blown to bits,” where the speaker grapples with the burden of bearing witness to such tragedies.
“Casualty” is a testament to Heaney’s ability to weave personal and political threads into a cohesive and moving narrative. While not a love poem in the conventional sense, it exemplifies a form of love rooted in empathy, remembrance, and the celebration of individuality. The poem’s enduring power lies in its capacity to transcend the specifics of its historical context, offering a timeless reflection on the human condition.
Through its elegiac tone and richly textured imagery, “Casualty” invites readers to consider the fragility of life and the profound impact of love and loss. In doing so, it affirms Seamus Heaney’s place as one of the most compassionate and insightful poets of the 20th century.

He would drink by himself
And raise a weathered thumb
Towards the high shelf,
Calling another rum
And blackcurrant, without
Having to raise his voice,
Or order a quick stout
By a lifting of the eyes
And a discreet dumb-show
Of pulling off the top;
At closing time would go
In waders and peaked cap
Into the showery dark,
dole-kept breadwinner
But a natural for work.
I loved his whole manner,
Sure-footed but too sly,
His deadpan sidling tact,
His fisherman’s quick eye
And turned observant back.
Incomprehensible
To him, my other life.
Sometimes, on the high stool,
Too busy with his knife
At a tobacco plug
And not meeting my eye,
In the pause after a slug
He mentioned poetry.
We would be on our own
And, always politic
And shy of condescension,
I would manage by some trick
To switch the talk to eels
Or lore of the horse and cart
Or the Provisionals.
But my tentative art
His turned back watches too:
He was blown to bits
Out drinking in a curfew
Others obeyed, three nights
After they shot dead
The thirteen men in Derry.
PARAS THIRTEEN, the walls said,
BOGSIDE NIL. That Wednesday
Everyone held
His breath and trembled.
It was a day of cold
Raw silence, wind-blown
surplice and soutane:
Rained-on, flower-laden
Coffin after coffin
Seemed to float from the door
Of the packed cathedral
Like blossoms on slow water.
The common funeral
Unrolled its swaddling band,
Lapping, tightening
Till we were braced and bound
Like brothers in a ring.
But he would not be held
At home by his own crowd
Whatever threats were phoned,
Whatever black flags waved.
I see him as he turned
In that bombed offending place,
Remorse fused with terror
In his still knowable face,
His cornered outfaced stare
Blinding in the flash.
He had gone miles away
For he drank like a fish
Nightly, naturally
Swimming towards the lure
Of warm lit-up places,
The blurred mesh and murmur
Drifting among glasses
In the gregarious smoke.
How culpable was he
That last night when he broke
Our tribe’s complicity?
‘Now, you’re supposed to be
An educated man,’
I hear him say. ‘Puzzle me
The right answer to that one.’
I missed his funeral,
Those quiet walkers
And sideways talkers
Shoaling out of his lane
To the respectable
Purring of the hearse…
They move in equal pace
With the habitual
Slow consolation
Of a dawdling engine,
The line lifted, hand
Over fist, cold sunshine
On the water, the land
Banked under fog: that morning
I was taken in his boat,
The Screw purling, turning
Indolent fathoms white,
I tasted freedom with him.
To get out early, haul
Steadily off the bottom,
Dispraise the catch, and smile
As you find a rhythm
Working you, slow mile by mile,
Into your proper haunt
Somewhere, well out, beyond…
Dawn-sniffing revenant,
Plodder through midnight rain,
Question me again.