What is the opposite of poetry? What slows the spark and puts sludge in the veins? What deadens the language? What rears up before you with livid and stupefying power—in the middle of the night, in the middle of the day—to make you feel like you’ll never write a good line again? Stuff. Not physical stuff, but mental stuff. You know: things you should have taken care of. The unanswered email. The unpaid bill. The unvisited dentist. The undischarged obligation. The unfinished job. The terrible ballast of adulthood. “In the last two days I have written thirty-two letters … The trouble is, I have about thirty-two more to write: I could ignore them but if I do the sense of worthlessness and hauntedness grows in me, inertia grows and, fuck it, I’m going to get rid of them before I board the plane on Thursday.” This is Seamus Heaney in 1985, writing to his friend Barrie Cooke. Heaney, at this point in his career, in his life, is a poet of established greatness, a professor …