Seamus Heaney Reads His Poem, 'Digging'
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- Опубликовано: 29 сен 2024
- Irish poet Seamus Heaney, winner of the Nobel Prize for literature in 1995 and one of the 20th century's greatest poets, has died aged 74. Watch a recording of Mr. Heaney giving a reading of his poem, "Digging", at Villanova University in April 2010.
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For our non-Irish friends, when he refers to his father digging "turf" he's not talking about grass. Turf is the colloquial name for peat which was the principal fuel in many rural Irish homes, burnt on an open fire.
When he signed my book in Louisville, KY, 1994, I said, "Mr. Heaney, I know you've studied many languages, and I'm about to go off far from home to study languages. Got any advice?" He said: "I don't know many languages, Dan [I had introduced myself, and he used my name, because he was kind] I just have my Latin and Greek from school." He handed back the book, leaned in: "I should have learned some Italian for that Dante translation-- but I just used the cribs!" Honest, gentle man.
Digging
Seamus Heaney
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.
The last three lines are simply stunning.
@@charliekorthals7065 yes it is
@@emmettroche313 How, though? Would you care to elaborate?
@@finitudeimperial8930 arguably the best example of metaphor in literature
@@emmettroche313 I'm sorry if I sound rude here but that is just ridiculous. The idea that he'll 'dig' with his pen rather than with a shovel for his food, being the best example of metaphor in literature. Please enlighten me if I'm missing the point here but I simply don't understand the hype around this. It comes across quite underwhelming compared to the great poets I've read before.
@@finitudeimperial8930 They aren’t some of the best line ever written but it does make sense. His grandfather and father dug with the shovel for potatoes and turf to make their own living whereas he digs into his thoughts and consciousness and presents them to us through his pen to make his own living.
For those who seem to think that this is a simple poem about rural life. Your missing the point, he is referring to the Irish struggling for freedom and the taking up of arms… however now unlike generations before him there is relative peace…. So rather than use the gun his weapon is his pen .. and he’s going to dig with it
Can you tell me more about it?
I show this to my class every semester when I teach this poem. Heaney was simply sublime, a beautiful poet and a beautiful man.
Heaney is gone and we grieve, who now to pick up the squat pen and dig?
This is one of my favorite poems. It's an honor to analyze this with my students.
I can't be the only one who's teacher made them watch this in English during learning about poetry.
Is anyone here actually gonna write feckin poetry??? Its the 21st century not the 1900s
same here.
Reply from your teacher: that’s “whose” not “who’s.” ;)
@@topsdaily_productions ... Are you implying that people don't write poetry anymore?
@@topsdaily_productions what a depressing comment
"Fuck this guy"
- Every A-Level student.
A-level isn't he more of a GCSE guy???
He's like that in Ireland, we study him for the junior cert (GCSE) not the leaving cert (A-levels).
+Drew Hanna I'm studying him at university. I'm assuming that A Level students, and GCSE students, don't understand poetic genius
We have to study him for the leaving cert
True
Studying him for honours English.
his accent is ❤❤
@@stardust86x I have the same accent ahaha !
Now that's a deep poem...
It really isn't. It's literally a slice of farm life. It was his adolescent. Maybe the last few sentences had a little more meaning. He chose a different occupation
@@rage8kage If anything it's an expression of disgust at the work of a farmer, and possibly an apology for not taking up the manly work of his forefathers. Notice how he's above his father, looking down on him. The descriptions of the feel and sound of turf cutting give an impression of something miserable and tedious, something to be avoided. The closing image of digging with a pen attempts to create a sense of continuity between farmer and writer, yet choosing the latter was clearly a rejection of the former. The impression of digging with a pen is comical if taken literally and denigrating to poetry if taken metaphorically.
@@lmtliam
No. Heaney is representing the deviation of career that mirrors the instabilities of the socio-political situation of Northern Ireland during 'The Troubles'. He uses genealogical language to describe his "old man" and draws similarity between poetic "rhythm" and manual labour to recognise the capacity for them to co-exist, yet because of the nationalist conflict and political rift, all horizons of reconciliation are marginalized and only the binary reality of hard labour and writing remains... it mirrors the binary reality of sectarian violence - the Catholics against the Protestants.
@@hrmna0386 The Troubles are not alluded to at all, and Heaney never described any such reading for this piece.
@@lmtliam
"Snug as a gun", guns used to kill hundreds of people in acts of sectarian violence. He deems a pen fit for his hands in stead of a gun. Heaney wishes to take no part in it. Though, it may be hard to point out explicitly with this poem in particular, that is right.
A wonderful exponent of rural imagery who paints vivid pictures for anyone who has experienced life in the Irish countryside. As we say in Irish, ní fheicfimid a leithéid arís - we will never see his equal again. He is gone, and the mould is broken.
The squelch and slap of Soggy Pete
that's your joke, right...?
Just wonderful - I always admired my dad for his work on cars. We are different men - always follow your passion
good man seamus .rest in peace .another piece of Ireland ,gone , not forgotten
Amazing poet and poem. Wonderful to hear him recite it.
Marvelous and so evocative. Thank you and may you R I P Mr. Heaney
A wonderful poet who's words have brought comfort and joy to many. RIP Seamus Heaney.
RIP
He must have been so bored of reading this over and over.
brings back memories of school this one
No comment ha ha
The pen is mightier than the spade?
"在我的食指和拇指中间 握着胖墩笔 我要用它去挖。" :The translation of the last sentences of this poem which presents the feelings and sensations described.
My mum and dad got a wedding gift from Seámus Heaney, and it sits in a portrait frame in our hall.
Digging always makes me feel like my Dad is near by. Special 😓
Anyone doubt him as a poet-- read "Station Island." Or his Nobel address. Or his translation of Sophocles' "Philoctetes."
Ramit IRELAND thank you for natural JUSTICE Amen
His voice reminds me of Frank McCourt. Both remind me of Dear Old Dad. Love, Robert.
Good observation. They both grew up 5/6 mile apart though in Ireland accents can differ a lot in that short space
I recently attempted to dig a hole in the garden with my pen and it never worked, I had to use a spade, because a pen is only good for writing with. You know what, I actually think it's not a very good metaphor. A spade is nothing like a pen.
Yes, and then you find you don't have the money to go out and buy yourself a bag of chips.
I know, but he's digging for words to write poems with it not literally
i tried the same feckin thing with a spade on me paper and all i could write was triangle shapes. no fecking nobel prizewinning stuff i tell ya hwat.
It's stunning how little you grasp. The depth of this poem is clear. It says much of how his family viewed his writing and how persisted. How he came from a long line of farmers and how he will devote himself to work hard as his family has. Theres as much unsaid here too. If you cant appreciate this poem then I doubt poetry can have any depth to you. That's fine. That's why Jesus invented netflix and cheeseburgers.
which former poly did you get first from again?
Beautiful
only connect ❤💙💜💖💗
R.I.P. you magnificent genius.
This poem is include in our syllabus...GU Eng. major 4th sem.
Any English teachers?
I expect thymic track from him because that's a song
Cazz e patataru
Revisiting this beautiful poem 8 years after I read it in HS. Heaney carrying the paper-corked milk struck me this time. Do y'all think it could symbolize his 'pen-and-paper' work as bringing a reprieve to the working Irishman?
Roth 1:06
Breath taking.
chills, every time
Really????????? Why? Please elaborate, if you would be so kind.
rip
RIP
Rest in peace. Great poet.
anda perlu melaraskan kandungan
thought it was good until i found out it was uploaded by wall street journal
Coolest Kids In Unturned I thought your comment was funny until I saw your profile picture.
ok not gonna lie you got me, you win, you want a cookie?
Beautiful poem and accent
What a man
Loved it!
Wham
We love you Healey sir
Oran McGread
He wrote a poem about his dad gardening and working
and’s now famous
I think you missed the point of what the poem is about