Immortalised In Verse

[silverlifter]

The Conway Stewart

by Seamus Heaney

 

"Medium," 14-carat nib,

Three gold bands in the clip-on screw-top,

In the mottled barrel a spatulate, thin

 

Pump-action lever

The shopkeeper

Demonstrated,

 

The nip uncapped,

Treating it to its first deep snorkel

In a newly opened ink-bottle,

 

Guttery, snottery,

Letting it rest then at an angle

To ingest,

 

Giving us time

To look together and away

From our parting, due that evening,

 

To my longhand

"Dear"

To them, next day.

 

[casualmerlinconstant]

Digging

 

- Also by Seamus Heaney

 

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 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 cut more turf in a day

Than any other man on Toners 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, going 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 Ive no spade to follow men like them.

 

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests.

Ill dig with it.

Edited October 8, 2019 by superglueshoe