Essay: Mythological Introspection: A Close Reading of Margaret Atwood’s “Digging”

Mythological Introspection: A Close Reading of Margaret Atwood’s “Digging”

A little over a year ago, I read a collection of poetry by Margaret Atwood. I was familiar with her only as a writer, and specifically as a science-fiction writer. The Handmaid’s Tale was really the only book by her that I knew. I sort of stumbled upon her poetry online and ended up reading Selected Poems: 1965 – 1975. I have since read several other collections by her but this one is still my favorite. Atwood’s poetry is lyrical and often has mythological themes, and this collection has influenced my own poetry since the first time I read it. It was sort of a revelation for me. I read her poems and thought, well, this is what I want to do with poetry. That being said, my style is very different from hers in a lot of ways, but her liberal use of mythic imagery inspired me to explore those themes more often in my own writing.

            The poem from this collection that I will discuss here is titled “Digging.” I will include the text here as well, since I am not sure the poem can be easily found online.

Digging

In this yard, barnyard

I dig with a shovel

beside the temple to the goddess

of open mouths: decayed

hay, steaming

in the humid sunlight, odour

of mildewed cardboard,

filling a box with rotted dung

to feed the melons.

I dig because I hold grudges

I dig with anger

I dig because I am hungry,

the dungpile scintillates with flies.

I try to ignore my sour clothes,

the murky bread devoured

at those breakfasts, drinking orange

and black acid, butter

tasting of silt, refrigerators,

old remorse

I defend myself with the past

which is not mine,

the archeology of manure:

this is not history, nothing ever

happened here, there were no battles

or victories: only deaths.

Witness this stained bone: pelvis

of some rodent, thrown or dragged here,

small, ferocious when cornered:

this bone is its last brittle scream,

the strict dogma of teeth.

I will wear it on a chain

around my neck: an amulet

to ward off anything

that is not fact,

that is not food, including

symbols, monuments,

forgiveness, treaties, love.

            This is a poem that I think needs to be read several times before it can be fully understood. It takes patience to organize what is going on. My interpretation is that this poem has a double meaning. On the surface, the narrator is mucking out a barn. I’ve always lived on a farm and I’ve mucked out a lot of barns, so the first thing that impresses me about this poem is how accurately it describes that process. It makes me believe that Atwood has also mucked out her share of barns. I appreciate finding that perspective in a poem, as it allows me to relate to the poet. There is joy in discovering that someone else has ruminated over the same dirty, exhausting work that I have. I’ve often written poems or songs or stories while mucking out the bard. It’s a hard, monotonous task, even with a radio playing in the background, and thinking is just about the only thing you can do to distract yourself from the work.

            Looking a little deeper at this poem, however, it seems to me that mucking out the barn is an allegory for dwelling on unpleasant thoughts. The first line, “This yard, barnyard,” does seem to imply that “barnyard” is not to be taken literally. The yard in question is like a barnyard but is not actually a barnyard. I take this to mean the yard is metaphorical. The yard is the narrator’s mind, which she is attempting to muck out. It is also “the temple to the goddess/ of open mouths,” which I find intriguing. I’m not sure what this line means. “Open mouths” could imply gossip, so perhaps the narrator is a gossip, or she is the subject of gossip. Perhaps others have said hurtful things to her, or vice versa. It could also imply hunger, which seems likely since the sentiment is echoed later in the line “I dig because I am hungry.”

            The following description of the filth the narrator is digging is on point. I could think of no better way to describe shoveling manure than Atwood does here with “odour/ of mildewed cardboard,/ filling a box with rotted dung/ to feed the melons.” There’s a bit of a turn here, because the narrator reminds you that all that unpleasant dung has an important purpose. She’s digging it all out and she’s going to use it to grow something wonderful, melons. For a moment, you know that good things will come of this muck-raking. Then, the next line gives the poem a darker feel.

“I dig because I hold grudges” has an ominous feel to it. I always stop at this line and consider it, because I am a person who holds grudges. I don’t often let this show, I will keep my grudges to myself for years and years, but they seldom go away. When I dwell on these grudges, which is often, I always feel I am digging up the past. However, I can help but poke at those old wounds, obsess over them, knowing that I’d be better off if I let them go and didn’t dig them back up all the time. I think this is what the poet is trying to communicate in this poem. The next few lines imply that the narrator knows that digging in the dungpile is making her filthy, that she’s trying to ignore what it’s doing to her. When she digs into those old thoughts, she makes an unhealthy meal of them, “the murky bread devoured/ at those breakfasts, drinking orange/ and black acid, butter/ tasting of silt, refrigerators,/ old remorse.” It’s not a pleasant meal and it doesn’t make the narrator feel good, but she consumes it anyway, or lets it consume her.

“I defend myself with the past,” she says, though the past is not hers to use in such a way, and she implies here that the thoughts she’s dwelling on are not very important. “This is not history, nothing ever/ happened here, there were no battles/ or victories: only deaths.” I find this compelling. What does it mean? I think about some of the grudges I have held. They weren’t battles because I never confronted the people I held them against. They weren’t victories, I didn’t benefit from them. Usually, they coincided with the end of a friendship, which is a sort of death. Life was changed after, some part of me died or matured. I shed an old skin and it disintegrated into nothing without me. But sometimes I think about how comfortable that skin was, and I want to crawl back inside of it. All I can do is bitterly dwell on things that brought about that rebirth.

“I will wear it on a chain/ around my neck: an amulet/ to ward off anything.” This reminds me of “wearing your heart on your sleeve.” The past sticks with the narrator, because she chooses to make it part of her regular ensemble. The narrator has agency in this poem, she could dispose of these old grievances if she wanted to, but she chooses to keep them. She keeps them because they remind her not to make the same mistakes. They serve as a barrier between her and the things that have hurt her in the past, they “ward off anything.” I like the idea of thoughts being wards or charms or amulets. I’ve used this idea in my own poetry on more than one occasion. It’s a defense mechanism, one I employed often when I was younger, and still employ, though I have tried to be better about it. Warding or protective symbols are their own kind of defense mechanism, since they are usually employed in defense against the supernatural, unseen forces that attack us more from the inside than the outside.

Atwood’s poetry often deals with interior thoughts, with the workings or overworking of her brain. It’s cerebral. I appreciate that, as a person who spends a lot of time with my own thoughts. At the same time, the mythology that she weaves into it captivates my interest. Mythology has been of great interest to me since I was a small child. I’ve read a lot about it and what it can tell us about the human psyche. Atwood blends mythology and psyche together in her poetry, which is a winning combination for me. “Digging” is only one of many poems she has written that have influenced my writing and spoken to me on a personal level.