Seamus Heaney – Dollend – ‘Digging’

 

Dolle

Tusken myn finger en myn tomme
leit de kante pinne; noflik as in pistoal.

Under myn finster, in klear en kriezjend lûd
As de lodde de stiennige grûn yn giet:
Us heit yn ’t dollen. ‘k Sjoch del

Op syn spande liif mank de blombêden wylst
Er bûgt, oerein komt tweintich jier tebek
Ritmysk op en del de jirpelrigen troch
Dêr’t er te dollen stie.

De groulears strak op it stiel, it fiem stiif
Tsjin de binnenknibbel sette er goed skrep.
Hy koppe de hege toppen, bedobbe it lof
En lei de nije jirpels bleat, dy’t wy garren,
Slij op de hurdens koel yn ús hannen.

Myn God, de âldman wist wat it wie en skep
Lykas syn fâar.

Us pake koe op in dei mear turf stekke
As wa dan ek op Toners Bog.
Him brocht ik oait molke yn in flesse,
De koark fan karton der rûchwei op. Hy kaam oerein,
Die syn drinken en foel opslach wer oan.
Tûk stekkend en snijend, seadden oer
’t skouder huffend, alwei djipper gong er om
De bêste turf. Dollend.

De kâlde rook fan jirpelgrûn, it sûgjen en
Delslaan fan ’e klyn, de fûle sneed
Troch libben woartelguod wekker woarn yn myn kop.
Mar ’k ha gjin skeppe en folgje manlju as har.

Tusken myn finger en myn tomme
Leit de kante pinne.
Dêr sil ’k mei dolle.

 

Digging

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; as 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 could 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, digging down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mold, 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.

 

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