本期节目分享爱尔兰诗人谢默斯•希尼的处女作「挖掘」。以下是本期诗歌原文，请对照收听。

Digging

挖掘

BY SEAMUS HEANEY

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

在我的食指与拇指之间，

夹着粗短的笔，舒适如一支枪。

Under my window, a clean rasping sound

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:

My father, digging. I look down

我窗下传来清脆的锉磨声

当铁铲切入含沙砾的地面：

父亲在挖掘。我往下看

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds

Bends low, comes up twenty years away

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills

Where he was digging.

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

他有节奏地躬身于马铃薯垄

在那里挖掘

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.

粗陋的靴踩着铲头，柄

贴着膝盖内侧使劲撬动。

他除掉高高的叶茎，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触感。

By God, the old man could handle a spade.

Just like his old man.

上帝作证，老头还能挥舞铁铲，

如同他的老头。

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.

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。

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.

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。

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests.

I’ll dig with it.

在我的食指与拇指之间夹着

这只短粗的笔。

我将用它挖掘。

Source: Death of a Naturalist (1966)

BGM：

《Goldberg Variations, BWV 988: I. Aria》,Bach.

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026.提喻｜谢默斯•希尼：我们手里冷硬的触感