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.

 

Bellissima poesia.

I passi più significativi PER ME:

BETWEEN MY FINGER AND MY THUMB

THE SQUAT PEN RESTS; SNUG AS A GUN.

 

Under my window, a clean rasping sound

When yhe spade sinks into gravelly ground:

My father, digging. I look down

(…)

My God, the old man could handle a spade.

Just like his old man.

(…)

But I’ve no spade to follow men lihe them.

 

BETWEEN MY FINGER AND MY THUMB

THE SQUAT PEN RESTS.

I’LL DIG WITH IT.

 

Il confronto “violento” tra noi e i nostri progenitori.

Il confronto tra un lavoro di concetto e un lavoro manuale. Il paragone ideale tra de modi di affrontare la vita e “fare” le cose. Loro con la vanga, con la fatica fisica, la schiena curva sulle zolle, la pressione della schiena sulla vanga, gli odori della terra e dei suoi prodotti. Noi con una “tozza” penna in mano, pericolosamente “comoda come una pistola”, senza fatica fisica ma solo mentale, ma pur sempre con uno strumento con cui “scavare” nella realtà e costruire nuove realtà.  Comodamente seduti ad un tavolo, d’accordo, ma pur sempre impegnati al massimo nella nostra missione.

Fantastica…

Breve nota biografica (per i curiosi…)

Seamus Heaney (1939–2013)  is widely recognized as one of the major poets of the 20th century. A native of Northern Ireland, Heaney was raised in County Derry, and later lived for many years in Dublin. He was the author of over 20 volumes of poetry and criticism, and edited several widely used anthologies. He won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1995 “for works of lyrical beauty and ethical depth, which exalt everyday miracles and the living past.” Heaney taught at Harvard University (1985-2006) and served as the Oxford Professor of Poetry (1989-1994). He died in 2013.

 

Un particolare ringraziamento alla collega (di lingua e letteratura inglese, ovviamente…) che- in un momento di pausa dal lavoro (durante un casuale incontro in sala professori)-  ha voluto condividerla con me….

latineloqui69