This one of Seamus Heaney , most well know poems. When he was refferde to has a British poet. He became a bit angrey: '' I AM AN IRISH POET! ''
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 the tall tops , be buried the bright edge deep
To scatter the new potatoes that was 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 like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.
Seamus Heaney. 13 April 1939- 30 August 2013. Who passed our way.
Poetry by ken d williams
Read 549 times
Written on 2013-09-07 at 21:36
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
DIGGING (Semus Heaney)
DIGGINGBetween 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 the tall tops , be buried the bright edge deep
To scatter the new potatoes that was 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 like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.
Seamus Heaney. 13 April 1939- 30 August 2013. Who passed our way.
Poetry by ken d williams
Read 549 times
Written on 2013-09-07 at 21:36
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
