Manifesting that order of poetry where we can at last grow up to

Seamus Heaney, poet of earth and memory, once gave us this luminous reflection: “Manifesting that order of poetry where we can at last grow up to that which we stored up as we grew.” In this line he evokes the secret covenant between childhood and maturity, between the innocent wonder of first experience and the reflective depth of adult understanding. Heaney reveals that poetry is not only expression but transformation—it is the place where what was stored within us in youth ripens into wisdom, where what we once felt dimly finds its voice in fullness.

The origin of this thought lies in Heaney’s lifelong devotion to memory and heritage. As a child of rural Ireland, he grew among fields, rivers, toil, and stories handed down in the oral tradition. These impressions, gathered quietly in the storehouse of his soul, became the very foundation of his verse. Yet he knew that what is gathered in youth does not reveal its meaning immediately. The mind may not yet be ready to understand the depth of what it absorbs. Only later, through art, can we “grow up” to those stored experiences, revisiting them not as children, but as poets of maturity, shaping them into an order of poetry.

History bears witness to this process in many lives. Consider William Wordsworth, whose Prelude is a lifelong meditation on the shaping power of childhood. The “spots of time” he recorded—encounters with nature, fleeting impressions of beauty or terror—were stored in the depths of his being. As a man, he returned to them through poetry, discovering in them truths that a child could never articulate. He, too, manifested that order of poetry where the adult grows into the meaning of what the child once received in silence. Heaney stands in this tradition, affirming that art is the bridge between memory and maturity.

The meaning of Heaney’s words is also heroic, for they call us to respect the inner storehouse of the soul. Each life gathers impressions—fragments of beauty, grief, fear, and love—that may lie dormant for years, waiting for the moment of revelation. Poetry, whether written or simply lived in mindful reflection, is the act of calling forth that hidden treasure, of giving shape and order to what was once shapeless. To “manifest” in this sense is not to invent, but to uncover, to let the deeper currents of life rise to the surface and teach us what they always contained.

There is also a lesson of patience here. We live in an age of haste, eager to express, eager to explain. But Heaney reminds us that truth is not always ready when we are young. Some meanings take time to ripen; some words require decades of silence before they can be spoken. Poetry teaches us to wait, to honor the seeds sown in childhood, trusting that one day they will grow into fruit. The poet’s task is not to force, but to nurture, to return again and again to the soil of memory until at last it yields harvest.

The lesson for us, then, is to treat our lives themselves as poetry. Do not discard the memories of youth, however small or strange they seem. Do not ignore the fragments of beauty or sorrow you have stored along the way. They are the material from which wisdom will be born. When the time is right, revisit them, meditate on them, give them form in writing, in art, in conversation, or in quiet reflection. In doing so, you participate in that same order of poetry that Heaney described—the order where we grow into the fullness of what life has already given us.

Practically, this means cultivating remembrance. Keep journals, treasure stories, walk back into places that shaped you. Read the poems and listen to the music that once stirred you, and ask what they mean now. And when you feel the stirring to create—whether in verse, or painting, or simple reflection—trust that you are manifesting not only your present self, but the entire storehouse of your life, ripened and made whole.

Thus Heaney’s words stand as a guiding flame: “Manifesting that order of poetry where we can at last grow up to that which we stored up as we grew.” Let us heed this call. For within each of us lies a reservoir of unspoken meaning, waiting for the moment of revelation. And when it comes, when memory ripens into wisdom, when experience flowers into song, we will know that poetry has done its work—bringing us to maturity, binding past and present, making our lives whole.