Agosto tardío, con fuertes lluvias y sol
en una semana, las moras madurarían.
Al principio, sólo una, un lustroso coágulo violeta
entre otras, rojas, verdes, duras como un nudo.
Comiste esa primera y su pulpa en la lengua era dulce
como vino espeso: la sangre del verano en ella
dejando manchas en la lengua y deseo
de juntar más. Luego las rojas gotearon y ese hambre
nos hizo volver con tarros de leche, latas de arvejas, frascos de dulce
a donde las zarzas nos raspaban y el pasto mojado nos decoloraba las botas.
Campos de heno redondeados, de maíz y surcos de papas
caminamos y juntamos hasta que las latas estuvieron llenas
hasta que el fondo fue cubierto
con las verdes, y arriba grandes pegotes oscuros ardían
como un plato de ojos. Nuestras manos punteadas
con espinas , las palmas pegajosas como las de Barba Azul.
Guardamos las moras frescas en el establo.
pero cuando la pileta estuvo llena encontramos una piel
un hongo gris arratonado, saciándose con nuestro botín.
El jugo apestaba también. Una vez desprendida del arbusto
la fruta fermentaba, la pulpa dulce se tornaba ácida.
Siempre quise llorar, no era justo
que todas las adorables latas olieran a podrido.
Todos los años deseaba que mantuvieran su dulzura, sabía que no.
Seamus Heaney
Seamus Heaney, Death of a Naturalist, 1966.
Versión: Marina Kohon
Blackberry Picking
Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard’s.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew they would not.
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard’s.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew they would not.
