Digging

When I first read Seamus Heaney’s poem “Digging,” I didn’t really have any strong feelings about it. But, after our discussion in class I have a new appreciation for it. One of the things that struck me the most is the admiration the speaker has for his father and grandfather and the manual labor they do. It is by no means easy work, and it takes a lot of discipline and strength to do it. It’s interesting, then, that Heaney equates that work to his own as a poet. If the poet’s job is to reveal, examine, poke at humanity, then he is speaking to how demanding human nature is—especially how demanding it is to understand human nature. Humans aren’t what they are on the surface, you have to dig in for the truth, like you have to dig into turf to get to the good stuff. 

As we talked about in class, I think the sound and diction of the poem is very fitting for the topic. Heaney is describing working Irishmen and the hard sounds of the words themselves are a “clean rasping sound”: “sinks,” “coarse boot,” “corked sloppily,” “nicking and slicing,” “curt cuts,” and “digging” all create a sound that mirrors the kind of rugged, hardened laborer I picture his grandfather and father to be. The sounds are harsh like the men; not necessarily in an uncaring way, but rather in the severe way you have to be in order to do manual labor for so long. This heightens the respect Heaney (and I) have for these kinds of workers. It may be physical work for the lower class, but it doesn’t make it any less necessary or honest and decent. 

I was also intrigued by the imagery of the pen as a gun and, by the end of the poem, a tool for digging. As a gun, the pen has incredible power of destruction. This can be horrible destruction, but I take it more as the power to destroy a person to show them something new. Pens, writing, words, poems express emotion, reveals things about us and humanity, and tells us these truths about life that are so valuable. Sometimes our perceptions needs to be completely destroyed because in the end it is good for us. I like that it takes Heaney the whole poem to finally commit to his work as a poet, like it was preparation for how taxing it will be to dig into humanity like that. The pen as a gun, like the spades Heaney’s father and grandfather made a living with, will bring some good. The men were able to make a life and provide for their families with their work, and Heaney will help give life some meaning to others through his poems. 

This is a pretty good poem.