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,

A 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.