在我的食指与拇指之间
夹着粗短的笔；舒适如一支枪。
我窗下，传来清脆的锉磨声
当铁铲切入含砂砾的地面：
父亲在挖掘。我往下看
直到他绷紧的臀部在花圃间
弯下去又挺起来，恍若二十年前
他有节奏地弓身于马铃薯垄
在那里挖掘。
粗陋的靴踩着铲头，柄
贴着膝盖内侧使劲撬动；
他锄掉高高的叶茎，将明亮的铲边深深埋进去，
把新马铃薯掀到四下里，我们拾起，
喜欢它们在我们手里冷硬的感觉。
上帝作证，老头还能挥舞铁铲。
如同他的老头。
祖父一天里在托纳沼泽地
铲的泥炭比任何人都要多。
有一次我给他送一瓶牛奶，
用纸随便塞住瓶口。他直起身
喝了，又立即开始干活，
利落地又切又割，把草泥
抛到肩后，不断往深处
寻找好泥炭。挖掘。
马铃薯霉的冷味，湿泥炭的嘎扎声
和啪嗒声，切下活根茎的短促刀声
在我头脑里回响。
但我没有像他们那样干活的铁铲。
在我的食指与拇指之间
夹着这支粗短的笔。
我将用它挖掘。
Digging
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.
BY SEAMUS HEANEY
作者 / [爱尔兰] 谢默斯·希尼
翻译 / 黄灿然
朗读 / 鳕鱼、诗雅
制作 / 蚊饭
出品 / 读首诗再睡觉（dushoushizaishujiao）
