Seamus Heany (Premi Nobel 1995)
Cavant (Digging)
Descansa entre índice y pulgar la gruesa
estilográfica; ceñida igual que un arma.
al hundirse la pala en la grava del suelo:
mi padre cava. Le observo desde arriba
hasta que entre los arriates la esforzada grupa
baja, se yergue a veinte años de distancia
inclinándose rítmicamente por los surcos
de patatas en los que cavaba.
La burda bota apoyada en el canto hacía
palanca con el mango apoyado en la corva.
Arrancaba de raíz los tallos altos, hundía bien el filo
para desparramar las patatas nuevas que recogíamos
y cuya fría dureza nos gustaba sentir entre las manos.
Por Dios, sí que sabía mi viejo manejar una pala.
Tan bien como su viejo.
Mi abuelo cortaba más turba en un día
que ningún otro en el tremedal de Toner.
Una vez le llevé una botella de leche
tapada torpemente con papel. Se incorporó
para beber, después volvió a ponerse
a cortar y sajar con esmero, arrojando terrones
por encima del hombro, buscando más y más
abajo la turba buena. Cavando.
Me vienen a la cabeza el frío olor del moho
de las patatas, el chapoteo y los golpes de la turba
empapada, los secos tajos de un filo cercenando raíces frescas.
Pero no tengo pala con la que seguir a hombres como ellos.
Descansa entre índice y pulgar la gruesa
estilográfica.
Cavaré con ella.
DIGGING
DIGGING
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.
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.
