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Digging 挖掘 By Seamus Heaney 作者/西默斯·希尼 （何功杰 译） Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; snug as a gun. 在我的食指和拇指之间 架着一支笔，像安放合适的枪杆。 Under my window, a clean rasping sound When the spade sinks into gravelly ground: My father, digging. I look down 我窗下传来清晰的铁铲 深掘进砂地时刺耳的声响： 我父亲在那里挖地。我朝下望， Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds Bends low, comes up twenty years away Stooping in rhythm through potato drills Where he was digging. 见他绷紧的臀部在园圃里 低低地弯下又抬起， 有节奏地弓身在土豆地垄里穿行, 二十年来他就在那里挖掘不停。 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. 劣制的靴子踩在耳把上，铲柄 靠着大腿内侧坚定地翻动着。 他铲除地面上的高茎，再深深地 掘下发亮的铁铲，翻起土豆撒满地， 我们扦起拿在手中，又凉又硬真开心。 By God, the old man could handle a spade. Just like his old man. 真的，这老头子使铲确是把好手， 就和他的老头子一样。 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. 我祖父在土纳沼泽地一天挖的泥煤 谁也不能跟他相比。 有一次我给他送去一瓶牛奶 瓶口随便用纸包扎，他直起腰杆 喝完了又马上接着干， 干脆利落地挖呀，铲呀， 泥块翻过肩膀，一直向下挖， 从不停息，为了挖掘好泥煤。 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. 土豆的冷霉味，潮湿泥煤的 吱咯劈啪声，铲土豆根茎时 那短促的切割声在我脑中觉醒 但是我没有铁铲跟着他们干。 Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests. I’ll dig with it. 在我的食指和与拇指之间 架着一支笔杆， 我要用它来挖掘。 lug [lʌɡ] 铁铲柄下方的耳把，脚可踩在上面着力向下挖土。 turf [tɜːf] 泥炭、灰炭，晒干后为爱尔兰的家庭燃料。 作者  西默斯·希尼(Seamus Heaney)出生在北爱尔兰一个世代务农的家庭。希尼的诗作纯朴自然，奔流着祖辈们的血液，散发着土地的芳香,继承了爱尔兰文学的优秀传统，以极富感情色彩的田园抒情诗见长。 朗读者  Marc Alexander，来自英国利兹，在中国生活六年。喜欢运动和阅读，大学主修诗歌。 ★《夜读》栏目每周定期推出“闽南夜话”、“诗歌之夜”、“英文朗读”等，用多元化的节目，满足听众们多样化的需求。 |
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