Week 1: TOUCH‏

Martin Puryear

The word for this week: TOUCH

All the senses (including memory). Remember worked paper project from first night. Something made by hand, and discovered in the making...

Also to consider--Seamus Heaney, the Irish poet, passed away on Friday. Made me recall one of his early poems... It's good to read aloud. The physicality of the sound corresponds to the physicality of what he describes...

Digging 

Between my finger and 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 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, 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 I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests.

I’ll dig with it.

Here's a link to Heaney reading:  http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/177017 for the sound of his voice.