top class words, more than i could muster and a shadow of what i could. the total and only reason why men like him should stand and we should kneel. thank you!!
I've heard him read this a couple of times, but not with the extra stress on the final "MY finger and MY thumb," that he does in the version you've located here. Makes perfect sense for it to be stressed that way of course.
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.
Beautifully put together, Pete. If you don't mind me putting this here there's a lecture I put together on this poem for students. Seamus Heaney - Digging - Full Lecture by Dr. Andrew Barker If you have the chance let me know what you think.
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.
bad week for Celtic kulture...hey ho! This poem which I encountered first in 1972 a ra' Mungo gave me a love of this mans humanity which has endured these weary years..
@insomnia759 I think the Brits have decided 'Well: Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Hemmingway, John Donne, Jane Austen, the Bronte sisters... that'll do for a while'. Speaking as an Irishman, no other country has produced such a range or depth of literary genius as Ireland has given our relatively tiny population. Britain, however, produced Shakespeare, and comparing any other writer - be they a poet, novelist or playwright in the English language to Shakespeare is like comparing a craftsman to God...
The primary strengths of the poem are its onomatopoeia, the word texture, and vivid description. I must say, however, that much of Heaney's work is rather dull and prosaic. While he wrote some good poetry, he's nowhere near the level of Yeats, with whom he's often compared. I've come across much better living poets who are little known.
That man is an untold genius. He is, arguably, the greatest of Ireland's living treasures.
One of my favorite poems beautifully done, and what a lovely voice he has too!
Ay you know the answer for this I gotta do it for a school assignment
Beautiful! Seamus Heaney, rest in peace.
RIP Seamus. A brilliant man. Love that piece of peotry. My dear dad came from the north with the same background, that piece always reminds me of dad.
top class words, more than i could muster and a shadow of what i could. the total and only reason why men like him should stand and we should kneel. thank you!!
Excellently pure. Pure and simple!
Nobel Prize in Literature in 1995
"for works of lyrical beauty and ethical depth, which exalt everyday miracles and the living past"
Thanks you just helped me with my english homework👍
RIP Seamus. My mother loved this poem.
RIP Seamus Heaney. Heritage spoke loudly through you. I didn't know about Toner's bog, now I do.
감사드립니다.
Amazing
Lovely!
From a fellow south Derry son I was inspired by you and wrote my first book oderryboy
Love Seamus Heaney :) I learned a good few of his poems for the Junior Cert, excellent with words
Poem and post excellent- editing and graphics bravo.
RIP, Mr. Heaney. Thank you for "Digging."
This is a brilliant poem.
if you understand it....
its shit
beautifully done! I linked to it from my blog--thank you!
his presence will be missed
Thanks for this! English is my second language and now I have the proper prenanciation of some of the words ;)
Cheers!
I've heard him read this a couple of times, but not with the extra stress on the final "MY finger and MY thumb," that he does in the version you've located here. Makes perfect sense for it to be stressed that way of course.
R.I.P.
Rest in Peace
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.
Just love it
This is great. Was on my A Level studies. :)
I learn it for my presentation 😀
Seamus Heaney
The perfect memorial to John Cuishne, every gardner listening to GQT will miss his gentle humour and breadth of knowledge.
thanks :)
Beautifully put together, Pete. If you don't mind me putting this here there's a lecture I put together on this poem for students. Seamus Heaney - Digging - Full Lecture by Dr. Andrew Barker If you have the chance let me know what you think.
Seamus Heaney "Digging"
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.
Take a look at by blog here for some in-depth Analysis.
'' I`ll dig with it " ...Seamus Heaney has an optimistic spirit ... but unfortunatly, the time is change and Irish people too..
bad week for Celtic kulture...hey ho! This poem which I encountered first in 1972 a ra' Mungo gave me a love of this mans humanity which has endured these weary years..
arrghhhh i gotta do one of his poems for my exams!
I have to do this for a school assignment
This is too hard make it easier
" snug as a gun " kiitos.
@insomnia759
I think the Brits have decided 'Well: Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Hemmingway, John Donne, Jane Austen, the Bronte sisters... that'll do for a while'.
Speaking as an Irishman, no other country has produced such a range or depth of literary genius as Ireland has given our relatively tiny population.
Britain, however, produced Shakespeare, and comparing any other writer - be they a poet, novelist or playwright in the English language to Shakespeare is like comparing a craftsman to God...
Slan abhaile, Seamus a chára
i just did an essay on this
@gangstaz001 How about Derry?
@gangstaz001 he's Irish :)
This man has a weird English/American Accent.
Join Sathya Sai Baba's organization Mr. Heaney!!!
wtf
The primary strengths of the poem are its onomatopoeia, the word texture, and vivid description. I must say, however, that much of Heaney's work is rather dull and prosaic. While he wrote some good poetry, he's nowhere near the level of Yeats, with whom he's often compared. I've come across much better living poets who are little known.
Don't join Sai Baba's organization!!!