Dig It

This is one of my favorite poems to read with freshmen.  It's rich, accessible, and every year students find new meanings and connections that I haven't seen before.  I think the first time I read it was as a senior in high school in AP Lit. with Mr. Desmond (who was a big fan of Heaney and all things both Irish and literary).  Some of these college professors love teaching it too.  Like I said, rich and accessible on many levels.  (Don't click the link until you read the poem a couple of times and give yourself a chance to think about it).  Enjoy.

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 dep
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 (1966)

Dear Blog,

I have been a bad blogger.  I realize I'm not doing too well with the whole concept of a blog having frequent and regular posts (or at least semi-frequent and semi-regular posts).  Even though I haven't written, I have been thinking of you.  In fact, I have the beginnings of several new posts saved as drafts, with just no time lately to adequately develop them with the time and consideration they deserve.  Some people say the blogosphere moves too quickly anyway, for genuine dialogue and sustained reflection, so consider this hiatus my way of slowing things down, in keeping with the anachronistic part of your title.  (On a side note, is it strange that Blogger's spell check doesn't recognize the word "blogosphere"?  Silly red squiggle.) 

Don't worry Anachronistic Inkling, I haven't forgotten about you.

In the meantime, here's a little outside reading in defense of Amazon's Kindle.  (For those detractors out there--you know who you are!)

Good Friday

I'm a week late, but I meant to post this poem by G.K. Chesterton last Friday:

The Donkey

When fishes flew and forest walked
And figs grew upon thorn
Some moment when the moon was blood
Then surely I was born.

With monstrous head and sickening cry
And ears like errant wings
The devil's walking parody
On all four-footed things.

The tattered outlaw of the earth,
Of ancient crooked will;
Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,
I keep my secret still.

Fools! For I also had my hour;
One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout about my ears,
And palms before my feet.

                       -- G.K. Chesterton