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.
i like your allusions between farming and writing...there is truth there....we dig deep enough to find good soil...we plant...and we wait....and sometimes it takes seasons for a poem to really grow to what it can be....smiles....farmers know much in the way of wisdom i think...
ReplyDeleteAnd inspiration can be like rain watering the field of our ideas helping them grow.
DeleteSuperb imitation of style -- great subject for both of you fine poets. Burn that turf!
ReplyDeleteThanks, I've liked this poem of Heaney's for a while now and enjoyed answering it with my own experience. They still burn lots of turf in western Ireland!
DeleteVery fond of Heaney and his direct yet very rich style--you do him justice here in your echo and response piece; I especially like it that your 'bones conspire' in this whole poetry cutting project.
ReplyDeleteI feel like I'm mining riches when I read him. Isn't writing poetry like our very bones are conspiring and cutting earth?
Deleteoh very nice...love how you capture him and love that i learn about poets i didn't know so far...thank you
ReplyDeleteHeaney is a gem, there's a great write up on him in Wikipedia.
DeleteVery nice post. I also love your header photo. Greetings from Montreal, Canada.
ReplyDeleteGreetings and welcome- glad you stopped by. The header is a view from my balcony.
DeleteMary, it's wonderful how your poem echoes Heaney's and how the tradition lives on. I wish I knew more about my Irish ancesters. Such a rich literary history. This made me think of Yeats' Innisfree...it's good to have a place to dream about and to escape to.
ReplyDeleteI had the good fortune to be in Ireland for Writer's Week last year. It was inspiring to see how revered writing, writers, poets are in Ireland. Yeats is amazing, of course, but Heaney is probably the greatest living Irish poet.
DeleteI enjoyed the comparisons. There IS a lot of different kinds of farming. I admire those who actually dig turf, but I think it would be a hard life. Give me a pen (or computer) any day.
ReplyDeleteI agree but the smell of turf burning is delightful. Now they're bringing in machines that cut the turf.
DeleteLovely poems. I especially like the first about your grandfather - so particularly vivid, and your writing comes in in a more understated way. Really super. One of my favorites of yours. k. (Can smell the peat.)
ReplyDelete