Zhang Zao translated several of his poems, including Digging. His translation is as follows:
Between my forefinger and thumb,
Sit down and rest with a pen, comfortable as a gun.
Under my window, there is a sour voice.
It was a shovel that went deep into the gravel;
My father is digging. I looked down.
See that donkey struggling between the flower beds?
Bend down and stand up after twenty years.
The bow bent down and crossed the potato furrow.
He's digging over there.
Rough shoes hung on the harness,
He pulled up tall seedlings from the ground and buried shining horns.
Spread new potatoes; We choose
I like their cool and firm feeling.
God, this old man can really use a shovel,
Just like his uncle.
My grandfather plays many games every day.
No one in Dongle swamp can catch up with him.
Once I packed a bottle of milk and sent it to him.
The bottle cap is made of dirty paper rolls. He straightened up.
Drink it all at once, then turn around.
Cut and cut. Raise your head.
Carry it on your shoulders and walk all the way.
Find a good turf. Dig.
The cold smell of potato samples was slapped.
Straight, straight, peaty, sharp, flying.
Wake up in your mind through living grass roots.
But I don't have a shovel to follow people like them.
Between my index finger and thumb.
Crouching pen is resting.
I use it to dig.
Whether the above translation is satisfactory or not, it is too "jumping" to understand. Let's look at the original poem.
Between my finger and thumb.
Take a rest with a pen; As comfortable as a gun.
Under my window, a clean and harsh voice
When the shovel sinks into the gravel ground:
My father is digging. I looked down.
Until his tight hips in the flower bed
It bends very low, and it didn't appear until twenty years later.
Bend down rhythmically through the potato drill
Where is he digging?
Rough boots sit on lugs and shafts.
The knee on the inside was firmly pried.
He uprooted the top of the tall tree and buried the bright edge deeply.
Spread the new potatoes we picked,
I like their cold hardness in our hands.
God, this old man can use a shovel.
Just like his dad.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day.
More than anyone else in Toler swamp.
Once, I sent him milk in a bottle.
Plug it with paper at random. He straightened up.
Drink it and immediately fall down.
Slice neatly and lift the turf.
Go over his shoulder and go down.
For good turf. Dig.
The cold smell, creaking sound and slap of potato mold
Wet peat, simple cutting of edges
Through the waking roots in my mind.
But I don't have a shovel to track people like them.
Between my finger and thumb.
Take a rest with a pen.
I'll use it to dig.
This is a seemingly simple but skillful short poem. Let's swallow the dates, throw away the poet's characteristic vocabulary mixed with English, Gaelic and Northern Ireland, ignore the poet's good intention of writing with sound, and turn a blind eye to the homophonic relationship between thumb, snug and gun through "U". Make clear the general meaning of this poem first. Seamus heaney is good at telling stories with short poems or writing poems with vivid short stories. We must know what he said here first.
Digging and digging describes such a scene: the poet is holding a pen and brewing new works. Suddenly, a voice from the window took him back to the past: he remembered his father's work and his father took them to grow potatoes. My father has been dead for twenty years. In the cool air, the cold smell of potato mold is still clear (through the living roots in my mind). Then, the poet remembered his grandfather, his hard work and digging peat. Finally, the poet came back to reality and felt that the pen in his hand was like a shovel in the hands of his grandparents. Three generations of grandparents and grandchildren make a living by this, digging and digging like this every day to continue the incense.
Having made clear the "vision" that the poet wants to express, the next thing to do is to try to avoid "hard injury" when translating, if possible. Unfortunately, there are some problems in Mr Zhang Zao's translation:
It is not easy to translate poetry, but we still have to say that caution is the best. One of the reasons for the low level of modern poetry in China is that many "poets" have to rely on the translation of a few famous artists to understand the rich and colorful foreign poetry culture, and the translated works often can't stand scrutiny, and the probability of misleading people and children is not small.