{"id":304,"date":"2017-03-06T09:34:35","date_gmt":"2017-03-06T14:34:35","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/scottbevill.net\/HVA\/?p=304"},"modified":"2017-03-09T10:10:39","modified_gmt":"2017-03-09T15:10:39","slug":"poem-30-digging-by-seamus-heaney","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/scottbevill.net\/HVA\/archives\/304","title":{"rendered":"Poem 30: Digging by Seamus Heaney"},"content":{"rendered":"<p>Between my finger and my thumb<br \/>\nThe squat pen rests; snug as a gun.<\/p>\n<p>Under my window, a clean rasping sound<br \/>\nWhen the spade sinks into gravelly ground:<br \/>\nMy father, digging. I look down<\/p>\n<p>Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds<br \/>\nBends low, comes up twenty years away<br \/>\nStooping in rhythm through potato drills<br \/>\nWhere he was digging.<\/p>\n<p>The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft<br \/>\nAgainst the inside knee was levered firmly.<br \/>\nHe rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep<br \/>\nTo scatter new potatoes that we picked,<br \/>\nLoving their cool hardness in our hands.<\/p>\n<p>By God, the old man could handle a spade.<br \/>\nJust like his old man.<\/p>\n<p>My grandfather cut more turf in a day<br \/>\nThan any other man on Toner\u2019s bog.<br \/>\nOnce I carried him milk in a bottle<br \/>\nCorked sloppily with paper. He straightened up<br \/>\nTo drink it, then fell to right away<br \/>\nNicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods<br \/>\nOver his shoulder, going down and down<br \/>\nFor the good turf. Digging.<\/p>\n<p>The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap<br \/>\nOf soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge<br \/>\nThrough living roots awaken in my head.<br \/>\nBut I\u2019ve no spade to follow men like them.<\/p>\n<p>Between my finger and my thumb<br \/>\nThe squat pen rests.<br \/>\nI\u2019ll dig with it.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>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 [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[2],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-304","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-daily-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/scottbevill.net\/HVA\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/304","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/scottbevill.net\/HVA\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/scottbevill.net\/HVA\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/scottbevill.net\/HVA\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/scottbevill.net\/HVA\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=304"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"http:\/\/scottbevill.net\/HVA\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/304\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":305,"href":"http:\/\/scottbevill.net\/HVA\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/304\/revisions\/305"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/scottbevill.net\/HVA\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=304"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/scottbevill.net\/HVA\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=304"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/scottbevill.net\/HVA\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=304"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}