Tuesday, March 17, 2009

My favorite Irish Poet


Excerpt from Digging by Seamus Heaney

My grandfather could 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, digging down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mold, 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.

No comments:

Cold Shoulder Top

Details: A&F Top / Gap Jeans / Calvin Klein Shoes via TJ Maxx / Loft Necklace We certainly haven't gotten to the point of the ...