Digging – Seamus Heaney

Origineel

Seamus Heaney (1939-)

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.

– from Death of a Naturalist (1966)

Vertaling

Seamus Heaney (1939-)

Dolle

Tusken myn finger en myn tomme leit de logge pinne; smûk as in pistoal. Under myn rút, in klear en raspjend lûd As de skeppe sakket yn 'e stiennige grûn: Us heit, dy’t dolt. 'k Sjoch op him del Oant syn spande rêch tusken de blombêden Djip bûgt, oerein komt tweintich jier tebek Ritmysk op en del tusken de ierappelriggen Dêr’t er dolde. De âld lears plante op it blêd, de stâle stiif Tsjin 'e binnenkant fan 'e knibbel, Untwoartele er it geile lof, stuts djip it blinkend stiel En fersille de nije ierappels, dy’t wy sochten Sljocht op har koele hurdens yn ús hannen. Myn God, de âlde wist de skeppe te hantearjen. Lyk as syn âlde. Us pake stuts mear turf op in dei As wa dan ek op Toners Bog. Op in kear brocht ik him molke yn in flesse Rûchwei koarke mei papier. Hy kaam oerein, Dronk, en foel fuort dêrnei wer oan. Sekuer snijend en stekkend, swaaid’ er seadden Oer it skouder, al mar djipper stuts er Foar de bêste turf. Dollend. De kâlde rook fan ierappelgrûn, it sûgjen en delkletsen Fan sompige turf, it skerpe snijen Troch libbene woartels wurde wekker yn myn holle. Mar ik ha gjin skeppe om manlju as har op te folgjen. Tusken myn finger en myn tomme Leit de logge pinne. Dêr sil ik mei dolle. Seamus Heaney  (oersetting Jantsje Post)