From "Digging"
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.
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.
“
”
from "Digging", Death of a Naturalist (1966)
Seamus Heaney
Farmers
My cousin digs turf still,
west of Ireland, County Clare.
Bog sits behind his house, gives
earth cut from ground for fuel.
Bog soil rich in humus, formed
by trees long gone, held
together by roots now recomposed
to offer heat and light.
He's a farmer, my cousin,
cuts turf with other farmers
in Lissycasey, tasked together
by this ancient pledge against the cold.
I farm different ground.
My bones conspire to write
these poems, demand I provide
muscle and heart to offer heat and light.
Mary H. Warren
16/11/12
This is offered for dVerse Poet's Pub hosted by Victoria Slotto who encouraged us to write inspired by a favorite poet in her article on literary allusion. Two of my favorite Irish poets are Seamus Heaney and Eavan Boland. The photo is mine taken after my Honey's cousin, Aiden, cut turf and set it to dry on one of our many visits to Ireland.
