SpokenVerse | Digging by Seamus Heaney (read by Tom O'Bedlam) @SpokenVerse | Uploaded January 2013 | Updated October 2024, 4 hours ago.
Seamus Heaney passed away on Friday 30th August, 2013 in Dublin, aged 74. The BBC have published an obituary here:
bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-23898891
The Irishman who doesn't handle a spade or a gun might feels a little guilty, but his pen is a fine substitute and with it he can pay respects to his ancestors.
The poem reminds me of a dialogue from the movie Charlie Bubbles (1967) with Albert Finney. Charlie has become a successful writer but is disaffected by his wealth. He pays a visit to the industrial town in the north of England where he started out. He stays at the posh hotel, feeling alienated. The old waiter recognises him - he's an old friend of his father's. The waiter tells Charlie admiringly that he has been following his career and has seen the movies made from his books. But then he says:
"Do you just do your writing now or are you still working?"
"No...I just do the writing" Charlie says.
"Remember me to your Dad" says the waiter.
You can see it - you can see the whole film - it's on YouTube. The scene mentioned is between 47:50 to 50:00
youtube.com/watch?v=Tc5B9OabjgU
Irish paintings by Martin Driscoll martindriscoll.com
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.
Seamus Heaney passed away on Friday 30th August, 2013 in Dublin, aged 74. The BBC have published an obituary here:
bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-23898891
The Irishman who doesn't handle a spade or a gun might feels a little guilty, but his pen is a fine substitute and with it he can pay respects to his ancestors.
The poem reminds me of a dialogue from the movie Charlie Bubbles (1967) with Albert Finney. Charlie has become a successful writer but is disaffected by his wealth. He pays a visit to the industrial town in the north of England where he started out. He stays at the posh hotel, feeling alienated. The old waiter recognises him - he's an old friend of his father's. The waiter tells Charlie admiringly that he has been following his career and has seen the movies made from his books. But then he says:
"Do you just do your writing now or are you still working?"
"No...I just do the writing" Charlie says.
"Remember me to your Dad" says the waiter.
You can see it - you can see the whole film - it's on YouTube. The scene mentioned is between 47:50 to 50:00
youtube.com/watch?v=Tc5B9OabjgU
Irish paintings by Martin Driscoll martindriscoll.com
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.
