Seamus Heaney (1939-)
Digging (1966)
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; as 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 could 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, digging down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mold, 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.
Comments (1)
kvora@... said
at 4:40 pm on Apr 9, 2009
The poem “Digging,” by Seamus Heaney, gives the reader an idea of a person digging into the reality of life. When one thinks of digging, it is usually the past or bad memories. But, one could simply as well dig into thoughts, life and reality. It is our experiences from the past that make our future, so by digging, you are not only visiting the past but also moving towards the future. The fact that the author talks about a pen, he is simply digging into the past, his memories and etching them forever. This poem itself is being dug by readers. We are continuously digging through out our lives, as we are always in search of something.
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