Heading Digging Seamus Heaney Date Objectives 1 Introduce

Heading: Digging - Seamus Heaney Date: Objectives 1. Introduce the poem. 2. Understand themes of ‘Nature’ and ‘Celebrating a person’. Warm –up – picture on next page I see. . . I think. . . I wonder. . .

Warm-up I see, I think, I wonder

Digging by Seamus Heaney Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; as 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 he was digging. The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft Against the inside knee was levered firmly. He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep To scatter new potatoes that we picked Loving their cool hardness in our hands. By God, the old man could handle a spade, Just like his old man. My grandfather could 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, digging 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.

Digging by Seamus Heaney Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; as 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 he was digging. The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft Against the inside knee was levered firmly. He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep To scatter new potatoes that we picked Loving their cool hardness in our hands. By God, the old man could handle a spade, Just like his old man. Exercise 1: First Impressions My grandfather could cut more turf in a day Having readother the man poem Than any ononce, Toner'swrite bog. down one Once I carried in him milk in a bottle sentence response and share it. Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up To drink it, then fell to right away Try using: I think, I know, I don’t know, I want to Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods know. down and down Over his shoulder, digging 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.

Notes – notes copy – Title and stanza one • Heaney’s father and grandfather were farmers and so he tries to be like them in his writing. In this poem, he is ‘digging’ for memories, extracting images, sounds and feelings to create something for us to process. He is telling his dad why he’s a poet. • Question: The pen / gun simile – is the pen mightier than the gun? Squat pen: A large thick Between my finger and my thumb pen. The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun.

Notes – stanza 2 and 3 • We’re shown a glimpse of how tough it is to be an Irish farmer including the effort it takes and condition of the ground. Working “in rhythm” is also a reference to chain gangs and slavery. What do you know about the famine? Under my window a clean rasping sound When the spade sinks into gravelly ground: Rasping - An unpleasant, My father, digging. I look down harsh, grating sound Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds Bends low, comes up twenty years away Straining Rump – sore lower back (butt) Stooping in rhythm through potato drills Where he was digging.

Notes – Stanza 4 and 5 • Despite hardships, the poet’s father was a great farmer. His son respected and admired him. Heaney fondly recalls the feeling of helping him. • Question: Does this sound like Heaney’s happy he’s not a farmer? • This is all in the past tense. What about now? The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft Lug – Where boot meets shovel. Against the inside knee was levered firmly. He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep To scatter new potatoes that we picked Loving their cool hardness in our hands. By God, the old man could handle a spade, Just like his old man.

Notes – Stanza 6 and 7 • The poet digs further and deeper ‘down’ into his own past to another great farmer, his grandfather. His pride is clear to see. Is there a sense of futility or a never-ending task here? My grandfather could 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, digging down and down For the good turf. Digging.

Notes – Stanza 8 and 9 • Heaney shows disappointment that he can’t be like his father and grandfather but will not let their work go to waste. They are his inspiration and the seeds of his work. Consider if you’d follow family footsteps or not? 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.

Questions: Remember “quotes”. 1. In your own words, describe what the father does. 2. What qualities or attributes does the poet admire and wish to have? 3. The poet uses so many sounds, sights and feelings that you feel you are on a farm. Discuss.

• Homework part 2 Learn the first 4 stanzas Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; as 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 he was digging. The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft Against the inside knee was levered firmly. He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep To scatter new potatoes that we picked Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

Digging by Seamus Heaney Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; as 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 he was digging. My grandfather could 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, digging 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. The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft Against the inside knee was levered firmly. He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep Between my finger and my thumb To scatter new potatoes that we picked The squat pen rests. Loving their cool hardness in our hands. I'll dig with it. By God, the old man could handle a spade, Just like his old man.

Part 2

Heading: Digging 2 - Seamus Heaney Date: Objectives • To examine the poetic techniques of Digging, including: • Sounds: Onomatopoeia and Alliteration • Structure • Simile and Repetition Warm up – next slide

Digging by Seamus Heaney Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; as 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 he was digging. My grandfather could 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, digging 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. The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft Against the inside knee was levered firmly. He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep Between my finger and my thumb To scatter new potatoes that we picked The squat pen rests. Loving their cool hardness in our hands. I'll dig with it. By God, the old man could handle a spade, Just like his old man.

Digging by. Warm-up Seamus Heaney exercise - copies Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; as 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 he was digging. My grandfather could 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 How many words To drink it, thenonomatopoeic fell to right away Nicking andthink slicing neatly, heaving are sods five can you of? There Over his shoulder, digging down and down the good turf. if Digging. in. Forthe poem you can find them The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap too? Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge Through living roots awaken in my head. The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft But I've no spade to follow men like them. Against the inside knee was levered firmly. He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep Between my fingeralliteration and my thumb Create three To scatter new potatoes that we picked The squat pen rests. Loving their cool hardness in our hands. I'll dig with it. There are eight in examples. By God, the old man could handle a spade, Just like his old man. poem as well. the

Digging by Seamus Heaney Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; as 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 he was digging. The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft Against the inside knee was levered firmly. He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep To scatter new potatoes that we picked Loving their cool hardness in our hands. By God, the old man could handle a spade, Just like his old man. My grandfather could 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, digging 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.

• • • • • • • • • • • • argh achoo ahem bang bash bam bark bawl beep belch blab blare blurt boing boink bong boo-hoo boom bow-wow brring bubble bump burp buzz cackle chatter cheep chirp chomp choo-choo chortle clang clash clank clap clack clatter click clink clip clop cluck clunk cock a doodle doo cough crackle creak croak crunch cuckoo ding dong drip fizz flick flip-flop flutter giggle glug groan growl grunt guffaw gurgle hack haha hack hiccup hiss hohoho honk hoot howl huh hum jangle jingle ker-ching kerplunk knock la Lub Dub meow moan moo mumble munch murmur mutter neigh oink ouch ooze phew ping pong pitter patter plink plop pluck plunk poof pong pop pow purr quack rattle snort splash splatter splish splosh squawk squeak squelch squish Sway Swish swoosh thud thump thwack tic-toc tinkle trickle twang d r o cw i e po o t a om n O y r e Ev ribbit ring rip roar rumble rush rustle screech shuffle Shush sizzle slap slash Slish slither Slosh slurp smack snap snarl sniff snip tweet ugh vroom waffle whack whallop wham whimper whip whirr whish whisper whizz whoop whoosh woof yelp yikes zap zing zip zoom

Notes – Onomatopoeia • The poet invites us into his memory by using sounds. With his use of Onomatopoeia, we can imagine the harsh sound of digging, the sharp sound of slicing and the wet mud beneath our feet. • Question: Why is this important or useful for the poet? What does he want? Under my window a clean rasping sound Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods the squelch and slap Of soggy peat,

Notes – Alliteration • The ‘S’ sound alliteration shows the speed and precision at which the farmers work; the shovel going into the ground. The harsh ‘G’ sound alliteration shows roughness, difficulty and effort; the digging up out of the ground. Both the farmer’s skill and hardship are expressed. • Question: Can you imagine putting in this effort to describe digging? Was Heaney mad? When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:

Digging by Seamus Heaney Quick questions Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; as 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 he was digging. My grandfather could 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 What do you think about the rhyme To drink it, then fell to right away and inheaving this poem? Nicking and stanzas slicing neatly, sods Over his shoulder, digging down and down For the good turf. Digging. The coldwould smell of potato the squelch and slap How you mould, describe memory Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge Through living roots awaken in my head. with adjectives? Memory is. . . . But I've no spade to follow men like them. The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft Against the inside knee was levered firmly. He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep Between my finger and my thumb To scatter new potatoes that we picked The squat pen rests. Loving their cool hardness in our hands. I'll dig with it. By God, the old man could handle a spade, Just like his old man.

Notes – Structure and Enjambment • As the poet digs into his past, stanzas and rhyme become irregular. The poet has as much control over them as he does his memories. He writes a free verse poem which has more freedom and can connect to people easier with a conversational tone. • Question: Are the stanzas with few lines better? Why? Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun. By God, the old man could handle a spade, Just like his old man. Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests. I'll dig with it.

Notes – Simile and Repetition • The opening and closing of the poem are the same apart from one thing. The comfortable gun is replaced by the active shovel. The poet shows determination in what he plans to do, which he’ll accomplish without violence. Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun. Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests. I'll dig with it.

Homework • Copy the poem into your notes with images beside it. There are 9 stanzas so again, focus on a couple images. • Remember, the point is to help you learn the poem so choose images you see as being linked to the words. Simple is better.

Digging by Seamus Heaney Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; as 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 he was digging. My grandfather could 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, digging 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. The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft Against the inside knee was levered firmly. He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep Between my finger and my thumb To scatter new potatoes that we picked The squat pen rests. Loving their cool hardness in our hands. I'll dig with it. By God, the old man could handle a spade, Just like his old man.