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

2. I see, I think, I wonder
Warm-up

3. 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.

4. 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
Having read the poem once, write down one sentence in response and share it.
Try using: I think, I know, I don’t know, I want to know.
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.

5. 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?
Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun.
Squat pen: A large thick pen.

6. 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: 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.
Rasping - An unpleasant,
harsh, grating sound
Straining Rump –
sore lower back (butt)

7. 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 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.
Lug – Where boot meets shovel.

8. 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.

9. 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.

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

11. 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.

12. 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.

13. Part 2

14. 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

15. 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.

16. Digging by Seamus Heaney
Warm-up 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. 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.
How many onomatopoeic words can you think of? There are five in the poem if you can find them too?
Create three alliteration examples. There are eight in the poem as well.

17. 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.

18. Every Onomatopoeic word
argh                                                        
achoo
ahem
bang
bash
bam
bark
bawl
beep
belch
blab
blare
blurt
boing
boink
bonk
bong
boo
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
ding dong
drip
fizz
flick
flip
flip-flop
flop
flutter
giggle
glug
groan
growl
grunt
guffaw
gurgle
hack
haha
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
ping pong
pitter patter
plink
plop
pluck
plunk
poof
pong
pop
pow
purr
quack
rattle
ribbit
ring
rip
roar
rumble
rush
rustle
screech
shuffle
Shush
sizzle
slap
slash
Slish
slither
Slosh
slurp
smack
snap
snarl
sniff
snip
snore
snort
splash
splat
splatter
splish
splosh
squawk
squeak
squelch
squish
Sway
Swish
swoosh
thud
thump
thwack
tic-toc
tinkle
trickle
twang
tweet
ugh
vroom
waffle
whack
whallop
wham
whimper
whip
whirr
whish
whisper
whizz
whoop
whoosh
woof
yelp
yikes
zap
zing
zip
zoom
Every Onomatopoeic word

19. 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,

20. 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:

21. 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. 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.
What do you think about the rhyme and stanzas in this poem?
How would you describe memory with adjectives? Memory is

22. 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.

23. 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.

24. 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.

25. 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.