“Digging”: un poema de Seamus Heaney

Os dejo por aquí estos versos del nobelizado poeta irlandés Seamus Heaney. El poema trata de caminos, de estelas, de sacrificios, de la poesía que reside en las cosas triviales.

Soy consciente de que no es fácil de leer en inglés (mucho vocabulario agrícola) pero, hacedme caso; merece la pena.




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.
Sobre Luis Miguel Artabe 339 artículos
Periodista, profesor, psicólogo de masas y #CommunityChamán. Como no me gusta la realidad me invento otra. Si vas contracorriente, soy tu salmón.

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