Friday afternoon report from the Machine House taproom

It's Friday afternoon and still technically summer, so of course I am at Machine House Brewery's taproom in Georgetown.

This week I have no friends in tow. I have leftover Mexican food and a volume of poetry by the late Seamus Heaney.

I tried to read Heaney in years past, but I didn't latch.

He's taken now. I get the awkwardness and I get the use of language as masonry.

In the volume pictured, The Haw Lantern, there is a series of eight sonnets in which the poet remembers his late mother.

Several of these sonnets recount times in his childhood where his mother and he were physically close. Not emotionally close, not necessarily that, but proximate. Within each other's physical space. Peeling potatoes. Folding linen.

One in this series talks about how his mother would affect less utility with language then she really had. And how he would reciprocate, even though they both knew what each was doing.

The book overall is about the intimacy of being alone. It's the existential condition, but measured with hard, bright, Anglo-Saxon coins.

Friday afternoon report from the Machine House taproom

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