The late Michael Longley told of how, one Saturday morning in the middle of the 1970s, when tribal warfare in Northern Ireland was becoming bloodier by the day, and even more so by the night, he and his wife, the literary critic and academic Edna Longley, were having a weekend lie-in, when he heard from below the rattle of the letter box. He put on his dressing gown and padded downstairs — I can see him, that big soft shambling gentle man — and collected a sheaf of letters and bills, and returned to sit in bed propped against pillows, with his spectacles teetering on the end of his nose, which is how in my memory he always wore them.
On one of the envelopes he recognized the handwriting of his friend and fellow poet Derek Mahon. Accompanied by a brief covering note, Derek had sent a poem fresh from the smelter. It was “A Disused Shed in Co. Wexford.” Michael read it, read it again, then in an awful silence let the sheet of paper fall from his hand. Edna asked him what was the matter. He sighed grimly and said, “I’m giving up poetry.”