DIGGING FOR STORIES – Creative Writes

Hello,

November is turning out to be another extremely busy month for Creative Writes!

I have been continuing with the pilot series of reading sessions in C&C care homes for people with dementia and one of the poems we have been looking at is ‘Digging’ by Seamus Heaney. It’s been wonderful to share this with the groups, listen to their memories and note their smiles. We have used the poem as a spring board to talk about family traditions/skills that have been passed down. As the response was so powerful in the Care Homes, I also used the poem with my other groups. Although I knew the poem, I feel grateful that I have had the opportunity to study it in much more detail and as with all my workshops – I have learnt so much from the participants.

Here is the poem for your reading pleasure – let me know what you think!

Digging

Autumn in Highgate Wood

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 mold, 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.

Seamus Heaney (1939-2013)
– from Death of a Naturalist (1966)

Try this: Write a poem about a tradition/skill that has been passed down in your own family. Perhaps the tradition stopped with you? If you wish, include lines/phrases from ‘Digging’ in your poem. Set your clock for ten minutes to get started. Enjoy!

Dates for your diary:

– The next Creative Writes Themed Workshop is Creating Character on Wednesday 26th November, 7.30-9.30pm in Muswell Hill, N10 (the roads are open again in Muswell Hill, so it is easy to reach us!).

– We also have our block of three December Workshops on Wednesdays from 3rd December, 7.30-9.30pm in Muswell Hill, N10.

Adults aged 18 & over are welcome to attend. No previous creative writing experience is needed. You will be guided through a series of fun, fast paced writing exercises. There is a maximum of ten places on each workshop.

For info & booking: https://www.creativewrites.co.uk/p/bookings-workshop-info-how-to-book.html