Digging

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 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.

刨土

谁莫斯·黑倪

在我拇指和四指间
握着短粗的笔就像握着枪

窗下，传来尖锐清脆的响声
那是铲子插入都是沙砾土地的声音
我往下看看，是父亲在挖土

看到他在花圃上弯腰使劲儿的样子
记忆就飞到二十年前那么远
那时他在土豆垄上
一起一俯哈腰挖土

粗糙的靴子踩在铁锹肩上，锹把
靠着膝盖内侧使劲儿翘
土豆已经露出了一点，他把雪亮的锹尖深深插入土里
掘出新土豆让我们来捡
最爱新土豆在手里冷硬的触感

上帝让我老爹善用铁锹
就像他老爹一样

我爷爷当年在特纳家的沼泽
能比别人砍更多的塔头墩子
有一次我给他送一瓶牛奶
瓶子是用一团纸松松的塞着。他直起身
喝一口，就再哈腰接着砍
利落的一切一划，把一块密实的草墩
抡上肩膀，扛着一步一步走向深处
找更好的塔头墩子，再挖

土豆模子上的冻腥味，泥地发出的
咕叽咕叽声，整齐的切印儿
这些都沿着鲜活的根系在我的脑袋里苏醒
但是我没有铁锹来跟随前辈

在我的拇指和四指间
握着短粗的笔
我用它挖掘