Seamus Heaney (1939-2013) Irish poet, translator and playwright, and he received Nobel Prize in Literature in 1995.
Fan Jinghua, born in 1965, is a poet and translator. His poems have been published in literary magazines and anthologies in Mainland China, Taiwan, Japan, France, Singapore and USA, and he has been invited to poetry festivals. He is a university lecturer and lives in Singapore.
She took me into the ground, the spade-marked
Clean-cut inside of a dugout
Meant for calves.
Dung on the floor, a damp gleam
And seam of sand like white gold
In the earth wall, nicked fibres in the roof.
We stook under the hill, out of the day
But faced towards the daylight, holding hands,
Inhaling the excavated bank.
Zoom in over our shoulders,
A tunnelling shot that accelerates and flares.
Discover us against weird brightness. Cut.
II. Parking Lot
We were wraiths in the afternoon.
The bus had stopped. There was neither waiting room
Nor booth nor bench, only a parking lot
Above the town, open as a hillfort,
A panned sky and a light wind blowing.
We were on our way to the Gaeltacht,
Between languages, half in thrall to desire,
Half shy of it, when a flit of the foreknown
Blinked off a sunlit lake near the horizon
And passed into us, climbing and clunking up
Those fretted metal steps, as we reboarded
And were reincarnated seat by seat.
III. White Nights
Furrow-plodders in spats and bright clasped brogues
Are cradling bags and hoisting beribboned drones
As their skilled neck-pullers’ fingers force the chanters
And the whole band starts rehearsing
Its stupendous, swaggering march
Inside the hall. Meanwhile
One twilit field and summer hedge away
We wait for the learner who will stay behind
Piping by stops and starts,
Making an injured music for us alone,
Early-to-beds, white-nights absentees
Open-eared to this day.