Ireland ke yit-chak chok-kâ
Σέιμους Χίνι
poeta irlandzki, noblista
Seamus Heaney
irländsk författare
irský spisovatel, nositel Nobelovy ceny
North
谢默斯·希尼
Irish poet, playwright, translator, lecturer (1939–2013)
Irlandes a mannaniw ken mannurat
irlantilainen runoilija
Field Work
District and Circle
Heaney in 1982
ирландский поэт
Human Chain
irischer Schriftsteller und Literatur-Nobelpreisträger
Шеймас Гіні
ирландски поет, драматург и преводач
シェイマス・ヒーニー
from "Mid-Term break",
Death of a Naturalist
left
poeta irlandês
escritor y profesor irlandés
right
Իրլանտացի բանաստեղծ, արձակագիր, թարգմանիչ, Նոպէլեան գրականութեան մրցանակի դափնեկիր (1995)։
dichter en toneelschrijver uit Ierland (1939-2013)
poeta britannico
nivîskarê îrlendî
އައިރެލެންޑަށް އުފަން އެކްޓަރެއް
북아일랜드의 시인, 작가
Nobel-díjas ír költő, író, előadó
Marie Devlin
iresche Schrëftsteller
셰이머스 히니
true
from "Digging", Death of a Naturalist
file, drámadóir, aistritheoir, léachtóir Éireannach
ирски песник
írsky básnik, spisovateľ a prekladateľ
The Spirit Level
bardd Gwyddelig, dramodydd, cyfieithydd, darlithydd (1939-2013)
আইরিশ কবি, নাট্যকার ও অনুবাদক
Tamniaran, near Castledawson, Northern Ireland
Хини, Шеймас
סופר אירי
poète irlandais et prix Nobel de littérature (1939-2013)
北アイルランドの詩人、著作家
Wearing a poppy bruise on the left temple, He lay in the four-foot box as in his cot. No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear. A four-foot box, a foot for every year.
Blackrock, Dublin, Ireland
شاعر إيرلندي
St. Mary's Church, Bellaghy, Northern Ireland
In order that human beings bring about the most radiant conditions for themselves to inhabit, it is essential that the vision of reality which poetry offers should be transformative, more than just a printout of the given circumstances of its time and place. The poet who would be most the poet has to attempt an act of writing that outstrips the conditions even as it observes them.
Beowulf: A New Verse Translation
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.
Awards received by Seamus Heaney
شيموس هيني