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By 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.
- Eating Poetry by Mark Strand
Ink runs from the corners of my mouth. Mark Strand was...
- Seamus Heaney
Seamus Heaney is widely recognized as one of the major poets...
- Digging
Digging. May 10, 2016. 00:00. 00:00. View the full text of...
- Poetry Lectures
Seamus Heaney: Absolutely. Michael Laskey: Give us a feeling...
- Eating Poetry by Mark Strand
Seamus Heaney is widely recognized as one of the major poets of the 20th century. A native of Northern Ireland, Heaney was raised in County Derry, and later lived for many years in Dublin. He was the author of over 20 volumes of poetry and criticism, and edited several widely used anthologies.
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Digging. May 10, 2016. 00:00. 00:00. View the full text of the poem in this episode. by Seamus Heaney. Audio recordings of classic and contemporary poems read by poets and actors, delivered every day. Subscribe. More Episodes from Audio Poem of the Day.
"Digging" is one of the most widely known poems by the Irish poet Seamus Heaney and serves as the opening poem of Heaney's debut 1966 poetry collection, Death of a Naturalist. It begins with the speaker hovering over a blank page with a pen, preparing to write.
Seamus Heaney: Absolutely. Michael Laskey: Give us a feeling of this life. Perhaps you could read “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
Summary. This poem is autobiographical in nature. The speaker, presumably Heaney, is sitting at his writing desk, preparing to write, when he hears his father working in the garden outside. This conjures memories of the speaker as a young boy, listening and watching as his father digs in the potato garden. The speaker marvels at how well his ...
By 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.
