"Owls perch in yew trees like strange gods," begins a poem from Tom Paulin's latest collection, The Road to Inver. But poets, it seems, can do a bit of perching too. Paulin and his fellow Northerner, Seamus Heaney, settled into the depths of a chintz-covered sofa in the Merrion Hotel in Dublin yesterday, hours before Paulin was due to present Heaney with this year's Irish PEN/A.T. Cross literary award.
"I've been asked to speak for 10 minutes," says Paulin, "but I'm not sure how long 10 minutes is in my handwriting, so I'll have to be careful. I've re-read all of Seamus's work recently and spotted several patterns. But talking about a writer's work when the writer is actually present is a tricky thing. You worry that you're intruding on the imagination."
Irish PEN was set up in 1921 by Lady Gregory as a branch of International PEN, a worldwide association of writers. Its aim, according to current chairwoman Marita Conlon-McKenna, is to provide a forum where writers can meet and compare experiences in informal settings.
It organises lectures and seminars, some of which are open to the public. It also has the right to nominate an Irish writer for each Nobel Prize in Literature.
Heaney became a Nobel Laureate in 1995, raising the question why Irish PEN waited a full 10 years before giving him an award.
Previous winners include John B. Keane, Brian Friel, Edna O'Brien, William Trevor, John McGahern and Neil Jordan.
The Irish PEN award doesn't come with a large cheque attached. Instead it offers a celebratory meal, to which the recipient is encouraged to invite copious numbers of friends and family, and a specially commissioned piece of art.
Heaney's trophy room is stuffed full of more silverware than Manchester United's. Does he have a special shelf for awards?
"More of a secret cupboard," he says. "It wouldn't do to get too swanky in the house. Actually, I have several beautiful pieces of sculpture, Oisin Kellys and the like. And now this one, which is like a totem, or a standing stone, a piece of wood with names carved into it." And strangely, he is the first poet to win the Irish PEN award. "Am I? Well, there's a good chance there'll be a few more to come. . ." There is a brief flurry as he and Paulin extricate themselves from their flowery perch; and then they fly off to lunch.
