Digging by Seamus Heaney
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rest; 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.
The squat pen rest; 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.
How is Imagery used in the poem?
The imagery in the poem is meant to appeal to all five of the human senses. Smell - "Cold smell of potato mould" Hearing - "Squelch and Slap" Sight - Seeing the Father digging, Touch - "Cool hardness in our hands" Taste - N/A. Other than that, the rest of the imagery focuses on how the Narrator's Father and Grandfather both had jobs which "dug" or required them to dig - E.g Cutting Turf, Digging for potatoes. This trend leads to the last line -- "I'l dig with it".
Why do i like this poem?
I like this Poem due to the effective use of Imagery, as well as how the poem is very vivid and detailed. Furthermore, the poem really allows me to visualize what is happening better than most poems. I also like the theme of the poem as it is about the previous generations of his family. However, he does accept that he cannot completely follow in his Parents and Grandparent's footsteps either. Therefore, I like both the theme, and the poem for the exceptional imagery.
About the author:
I also like many of this poet's other poems. For example, Mid Term Break and Blackberry Picking. I enjoy the former due to how poignant it is, and the effective use of imagery to convey the emotion to the reader. I enjoy the Latter due to how it shows the greed of a younger boy, even though he knew the Blackberries would spoil. The poem is also very vivid as the descriptions make up a significant part of the poem.
