On Excellent English Poetry (I)
Whatever you say, don't say it.
Seamus Heaney
"Religion has never been mentioned here", of course.
"You know them through their eyes," and keep your tongue.
"One side is as bad as the other." It can't be worse.
Oh, my God, it's almost time to leak.
On the levee built by the Dutch
Stopped the dangerous tide that followed seamus.
However, for all these arts and settlement trade.
There's nothing I can do. famous
Northerners' reticence and local curses
And the times: right, right. In my "Little Six"
All you have to do is save face
Whatever you say, don't say it.
Smoke signal and we loudly say:
How to find out the name and school,
By subtle differences in addresses
With few exceptions.
Norman, Ken and Sidney motioned for the stamp.
Seamus * * * call me Sean * * * is a reliable Pape.
Oh, passwords, handles, places to blink and nod,
An open mind like a trap,
The place where the tongue is coiled is like a wick under a flame.
Half of us are like a wooden horse.
Imprisoned and restricted like cunning Greeks,
Trapped in the besieged city, whispering morse.
On Excellent English Poetry (Ⅱ)
From the forefront of writing
Seamus Heaney
The compactness and nothingness surrounding that space
When the car is parked on the road, the army makes an inspection.
Its brand and number, when a person bends his face.
Looking at your window, you see more.
On a hill in the distance, watching with intention.
Put the gun down and hide you.
Everything is pure interrogation.
Until the rifle moves, you move
Accelerate carefully-
A little empty, a little tired
As always, I was shocked by the trembling of myself.
Surrender, yes, obedience.
So you started a new field of writing.
Where it happened again. A gun on a tripod;
The sergeant repeated with his on-off microphone.
About your data, wait for complaints.
Clearance rate; Mark * * * trained.
Come at you from the sun like an eagle.
All of a sudden, you're finished, you're arraigned and you're released,
Just like you pass behind a waterfall.
Black water on the asphalt road
Through armored vehicles, at
The stationed soldiers are constantly moving and retreating.
It's like a shadow cast on a polished windshield.
On Excellent English Poetry (Ⅲ)
dig
Seamus Heaney
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 rises only after twenty years.
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.
As God is my witness, the old man can use a spade.
Just like his dad.
My grandfather can cut more turf 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.
Over his shoulder, dig down.
For good turf. Dig.
Cold cells, creaking sound and flapping sound 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.
dig
Between my finger and thumb.
A sturdy pen is lying on the ground, as comfortable as a gun.
Under my window, a clear and rough voice.
The shovel cut into the gravel-covered land;
My father is digging. I looked down.
See his hips between the flower beds.
Bend down and stretch up for 20 years.
Pitching the ball rhythmically on the sweet potato ridge,
He is digging.
Rough boots on a spade with a long handle
Reluctantly pry the inside of the knee,
He raised a thick layer of soil on the surface with his roots,
Bury the shiny side of the shovel,
Sprinkle new potatoes and we will pick them up with our hands.
I like their cold and hard taste.
To tell the truth, the old man skillfully used his shovel.
Just like his dad.
My grandfather's tuna swamp
Dig more peat than anyone else in one day.
Once I gave him a bottle of milk,
Plug the bottle mouth loosely with paper balls. He straightened up, had a drink, and immediately began to laugh.
Cut the peat neatly, cut it well and put the soil in.
In order to find peat,
Keep digging.
Cold air in sweet potato field and wet peat field
Creaking, cooing, and the short sound of a shovel cutting into the root of a live potato
Echoes in my mind.
But I don't have a shovel like theirs.
Between my finger and thumb.
The sturdy pen lay down.
I want to use it to dig.