My favourite love poem scarcely checks out just like a love poem after all. In Seamus Heaney’s “Scaffolding,” the belated Irish poet compares the wedding he shares along with his spouse Marie to not ever a flower or perhaps a springtime or birdsong but to your scaffolding that masons erect when beginning construction for a building.
Masons, Heaney writes, “Are careful to try the scaffolding out; / Make certain that planks won’t slip at busy points, / Secure all ladders, tighten bolted joints;” — work that’s perhaps perhaps maybe not used on the edifice it self but supports the higher work to come. Their care just takes care of “when the job’s done,” when “all this comes down” to show “walls of certain and solid stone.” Such, he suggests, is love: that we’ve built our wall. if you add when you look at the time and effort, enthusiast and beloved can “let the scaffolds fall / Confident”
I enjoy much about that poem — its solidness, its succinctness, its easy, workmanlike clarity. The majority of all though, I like exactly just how utterly unromantic it’s.