Today’s poem is about the gulf between two generations, father and son. In our upwardly-mobile society today, we should all take a moment to consider our origins and those of our parents and grandparents: what were they doing when they were the age we are now, where were they living, what was their daily routine?Because of copyright restrictions I am unable to reproduce the poem in full, but please search it out in an anthology or at your local library.
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 the gravelly ground:
My father, digging…
I am an author, my father was a farmer, his father was a farmer. They milked cows, I write stories.
Click here to hear Seamus Heaney read the poem in full.
Read Heaney’s biography here at The Poetry Foundation. If you don’t know this website, it is a wonderful resource about poetry.
To learn more about Heaney, read Dennis O’Driscoll’s Stepping Stones: Interviews with Seamus Heaney [Faber], click here for the Amazon link.
‘Death of a Naturalist’ by Seamus Heaney [Faber]
I know this one well, my husband (the English teacher) used to have this on a poster up on his classroom wall 🙂
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I would love a poster too! SD