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User Rating: |
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7.9
/10
(221
votes)
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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.
Seamus Heaney
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Read poems about / on: father, god
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Comments about this poem (Digging
by
Seamus Heaney
) |
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comments about this poem (Digging by
Seamus Heaney
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Ken E Hall
(3/19/2009 11:34:00 PM) |
A poem of thought of family an dits old ways hard ways..history stood up by the last verse..luved it
regards uavaniceday
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Jennie Wainwright
(2/21/2009 1:29:00 PM) |
This poem is really inspirational. How the poet sees his father and grandfather gives him the ability to write such a thoughtful poem. Even though he seems to feel that he can't follow in his Father's footsteps, shows that he has thought carefully about how much he looks up to him.
Even though people try to look up to someone else, they still have their own skills and inspirations for others.
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Sarah Novak
(2/2/2009 8:20:00 PM) |
Hey i was wondering if anyone would be able to enlighten me as to what the last stanza really means... specifically the word squat
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Icrine Jonas
(2/2/2009 10:31:00 AM) |
I agree with Beth and S R. This poem really opens your mind to how people think about what they want to be.
And i believe those two who posted the negative comments are really the same childish person. Comments like that should be kept to yourself. Constructive comments are more appreciated by people even if you think you are right.
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Beth T
(2/1/2009 8:40:00 AM) |
I am a senior in high school, and I recently started reading Seamus Heaney. I adore his poems. They are rather simple to understand, but they are full of subtle detail if you read them right. This one is the same way. You can find the narrators feelings for his fathers by reading (yes, I realize this is trite and cliché) in between the lines.
Also- If you're going to bash a poet and his intellect, it’s probably best to learn the difference between 'their' and 'there.' Their is possessive, meaning it belongs to them. There is a place. Such as 'put themselves out there.' Just wanted to let you know, Ben. (Clever name by the way. No third grader has ever made that joke at recess. Wait...)
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S R
(1/28/2009 7:45:00 PM) |
I had to write a paper on this in my last year of college and it have never left my mind once I understood it. Heaney is his last line states 'The squat pen rests. I'll dig with it'. Although Heaney believes that his dig(for memories) is equivocal as his fathers digging for potatoes, he's merely stated that he wants to distance himself from what his father was. He even states on one point that he was looking down on his father. I believe that was meant to be taken both figuratively and literally. I once to looked down on my father and was ashamed of who he was. A simple man and I too, like Heaney, didnt choose to follow in my fathers footsteps. As I've grown older, I've found myself wanting to be more like my father. My father is a great man and I hope to become as great as a person as he is one day. This poem reminds me everyday of that.
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Mark Andrew
(1/1/2009 10:21:00 AM) |
This is one of Seamus Heaney's best poems. Like one of the other subscribers to this thread it brings back memories for me too. I can easily visualise and hear the cold rasping spade as it crunches through the gravel, the sloppy milk soaking into the paper stopper and and the squelching bog. Heaney has a great gift for putting into words common sights which would otherwise go unnoticed or unremarked and when he does this, he enables our minds' eye to see them and remember again.
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Ben Dover
(11/8/2008 5:46:00 PM) |
yehh i mean they put themselves out their its not like they get loads of money or anything for writing this.
Wait.
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Ben Smith
(10/15/2008 7:09:00 PM) |
I like this poem. If you dont that is fine, but i am disappointed by the blatant uneducated lack of respect. It a lot of courage to write something and publish it to the world. That is putting a lot of yourself out there for everyone to see. When people are so openly disrespectful and negitive in response, it seems to be a moral flaw. Think of what people have put forth before you trash what you fail to take the time to comprehend.
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