關於優秀英語詩歌篇壹
Whatever You Say, Say Nothing
Seamus Heaney
"Religion's never mentioned here", of course.
"You know them by their eyes," and hold your tongue.
"One side's as bad as the other," never worse.
Christ, it's near time that some *** all leak was sprung
In the great dykes the Dutchman made
To dam the dangerous tide that followed Seamus.
Yet for all this art and sedentary trade
I am incapable. The famous
Northern reticence, the tight gag of place
And times: yes, yes. Of the "wee six" I sing
Where to be saved you only must save face
And whatever you say, you say nothing.
Smoke-signals are loud-mouthed pared with us:
Manoeuvrings to find out name and school,
Subtle discrimination by addresses
With hardly an exception to the rule
That Norman, Ken and Sidney signalled Prod
And Seamus ***call me Sean*** was sure-fire Pape.
O land of password, handgrip, wink and nod,
Of open minds as open as a trap,
Where tongues lie coiled, as under flames lie wicks,
Where half of us, as in a wooden horse
Were cabin'd and confined like wily Greeks,
Besieged within the siege, whispering morse.
關於優秀英語詩歌篇二
From The Frontier Of Writing
Seamus Heaney
The tightness and the nilness round that space
when the car stops in the road, the troops inspect
its make and number and, as one bends his face
towards your window, you catch sight of more
on a hill beyond, eyeing with intent
down cradled guns that hold you under cover
and everything is pure interrogation
until a rifle motions and you move
with guarded unconcerned acceleration--
a little emptier, a little spent
as always by that quiver in the self,
subjugated, yes, and obedient.
So you drive on to the frontier of writing
where it happens again. The guns on tripods;
the sergeant with his on-off mike repeating
data about you, waiting for the squawk
of clearance; the mark *** an training down
out of the sun upon you like a hawk.
And suddenly you're through, arraigned yet freed,
as if you'd passed from behind a waterfall
on the black current of a tarmac road
past armor-plated vehicles, out between
the posted soldiers flowing and receding
like tree shadows into the polished windscreen.
關於優秀英語詩歌篇三
Digging
Seamus Heaney
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; as 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, es 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 could 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, digging down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold *** ell of potato mold, 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.
挖掘
在我手指和大拇指中間
壹支粗壯的筆躺著，舒適自在像壹支槍。
我的窗下，壹個清晰而粗厲的響聲
鐵鏟切進了礫石累累的土地：
我爹在挖土。我向下望
看到花坪間他正使勁的臀部
彎下去，伸上來，二十年來
穿過白薯壟有節奏地俯仰著，
他在挖土。
粗劣的靴子踩在鐵鏟上，長柄
貼著膝頭的內側有力地撬動，
他把表面壹層厚土連根掀起，
把鐵鏟發亮的壹邊深深埋下去，
使新薯四散，我們撿在手中，
愛它們又涼又硬的味兒。
說真的，這老頭子使鐵鏟的巧勁
就像他那老頭子壹樣。
我爺爺的土納的泥沼地
壹天挖的泥炭比誰個都多。
有壹次我給他送去壹瓶牛奶，
用紙團松松地塞住瓶口。他直起腰喝了，馬上又幹開了，
利索地把泥炭截短，切開，把土.
撩過肩，為找好泥炭，
壹直向下，向下挖掘。
白薯地的冷氣，潮溼泥炭地的
咯吱聲、咕咕聲，鐵鏟切進活薯根的短促聲響
在我頭腦中回蕩。
但我可沒有鐵鏟像他們那樣去幹。
在我手指和大拇指中間
那支粗壯的筆躺著。
我要用它去挖掘。