Mi muro deslumbrante by Michael Mcgeary https://padlet.com/mcgearymichael23/at3odglpreup Hecho con ♥ en-us 2018-01-24 17:20:59 UTC 2025-12-06 07:53:52 UTC hello@padlet.com Seamus Heaney was born in April 1939, the eldest member of a family which would eventually contain nine children. His father owned and worked a small farm of some fifty acres in County Derry in Northern Ireland, but the father's real commitment was to cattle-dealing. There was something very congenial to Patrick Heaney about the cattle-dealer's way of life to which he was introduced by the uncles who had cared for him after the early death of his own parents. The poet's mother came from a family called McCann whose connections were more with the modern world than with the traditional rural economy; her uncles and relations were employed in the local linen mill and an aunt had worked "in service" to the mill owners' family. The poet has commented on the fact that his parentage thus contains both the Ireland of the cattle-herding Gaelic past and the Ulster of the Industrial Revolution; indeed, he considers this to have been a significant tension in his background, something which corresponds to another inner tension also inherited from his parents, namely that between speech and silence. His father was notably sparing of talk and his mother notably ready to speak out, a circumstance which Seamus Heaney believes to have been fundamental to the "quarrel with himself" out of which his poetry arises. mcgearymichael23 https://padlet.com/mcgearymichael23/at3odglpreup/wish/224333616 2018-01-24 17:26:14 UTC https://padlet.com/mcgearymichael23/at3odglpreup/wish/224333616 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 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. mcgearymichael23 https://padlet.com/mcgearymichael23/at3odglpreup/wish/224336310 2018-01-24 17:30:40 UTC https://padlet.com/mcgearymichael23/at3odglpreup/wish/224336310 VIDEO https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KNRkPU1LSUg mcgearymichael23 https://padlet.com/mcgearymichael23/at3odglpreup/wish/224338849 2018-01-24 17:34:17 UTC https://padlet.com/mcgearymichael23/at3odglpreup/wish/224338849 mcgearymichael23 https://padlet.com/mcgearymichael23/at3odglpreup/wish/224341831 2018-01-24 17:39:00 UTC https://padlet.com/mcgearymichael23/at3odglpreup/wish/224341831