Sunday, August 1, 2010

Poem of the Week: "Digging," by Seamus Heaney

There's no real rhyme or reason behind this week's poem. Rather, it's just one of my favorite poems and I recently realized I've never posted it here. I think Seamus Heaney has some of the most beautifully earthy language of any poet who ever published, and this poem is a lovely exploration of how one becomes a writer. Also, it contains one of my favorite images in all of poetry: "Once I carried him milk in a bottle / Corked sloppily with paper." So simple and perfect; it completely makes this poem for me. Enjoy!

Digging, by Seamus Heaney

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.

1 comment:

  1. That is a very nice poem. So simple, so vivid. It sort of reminds me of the style of poetry my friend Megan writes. She has a small book published entitled "Pardon Us Ms. Writer"