Mohammad-Taqí Bahār: “Rid the heart of darkness” – a poem for Nowruz

Mohammad-Taqí Bahār (Iranian poet, 1884-1951)

 

 

Spring now, flowers are coming, there’s happiness in the green vine,

Blossoms are blooming – all except mine.

Free spirit, don’t lose heart, on New Year’s Day *,

I heard from the lips of a lily today:

Do not sing the seven illusions this New Year’s Eve **, I beg thee:

Complaint, curse, corruption, cacophony, clumsiness, chaos and cruelty.

The seven symbols make:  of serene “sabzeh”, of scented “sonbol” and sweet “seeb”;

Of “senjed”, “samanu”, “seer” and “somaq”.

Send the seven symbols to the table of a lover.

Toss the seven illusions toward the door of an ill-wisher.

It’s New Year’s Eve – rid the heart of darkness.

Eventually this shadow-night will turn to brightness.

Carry out the New Year traditions and, God willing,

Bring back that feeling of excellent beginnings !

 

_____

 

Glossary:

“sabzeh” – a flowerpotful of newly-sprouted wheat

“sonbol” – the Hyacinth flower – native to Iran, early Spring bloomer

“seeb” – apple

“senjed” – fruit of the mountain-ash tree, or red date, a.k.a.  jujube

“samanu” – a creamy wheat germ pudding

“seer” – garlic

“somaq” – red berries of the Sumac tree

Editor’s note:  Also “serkeh” – vinegar – representing old age and patience…

 

_____

 

* The Persian/Iranian New Year is always the same day as the

First Day of Spring – March 20th this year.  It is known as

Nowruz – “New Day”.  Nowruz is pre-Islamic in origin, and is

celebrated by the Kurdish people as well.

** March 19th this year


Ailbhe Ní Ghearbhuigh: Habla la “Voz” irlandesa / The Irish “Voice” Speaks

ZP_Kerry Way walking path between Sneem and Kenmare_Ireland

.

Ailbhe Ní Ghearbhuigh

(nace 1984, Tralee, condado de Kerry, Irlanda

/ born 1984, Tralee, County Kerry, Ireland)

“Cuando Uno Se Desespera”

 .

 Hay algunos días cuando

– admitámoslo –

me canso de

unirme por su defensa

Me agoto de estar arraigado

aquí junto a su cabecera

Esta lengua

que ha sido violada,

estoy esperando que se recupere,

cuidando de ella, diligentemente,

deseándole que la Vida entre en ella de nuevo

Y cuando veo

sus huesos pudriéndose

calcificándose

Sé que

algún día

no quedará nada

sólo el polvo, mudo…

como yo – si pensamos en esto.

 

_____

 

“Laethanta Lagmhisnigh”

.

Admhaím corrlá

bím traochta

dá cosaint os comhair an tsaoil

Bím bréan de bheith fréamhaithe

cois leapan

na teangan éignithe

seo

ag guí biseach uirthi

á faire go cúramach

ag impí beatha inti arís

Is nuair a chím

a cnámha lofa

ag cailciú

tuigim

ná beidh fágtha

lá éigin

ach smúit bhalbh . . .

ach an oiread liom féin.

 

_____

 

“When One Despairs”

.

Some days, let’s admit it,

I tire

of rallying to her defence

I weary of being rooted

here by her bedside

this language

that has been violated

hoping she’ll come around

watching her assiduously

wishing the life back into her again

And when I see

her rotting bones

calcifying

I know that

one day

there will be nothing left

nothing but dust, mute . . .

like myself, come to think of it.

 

_____

 

“Un Tema de Cierto Pesar”

.

No, no estoy tan deprimido que

me quedo

debajo del edredón

todo el día

– eso sería una exageración.

Sólo es que

mi ojo

me hizo feliz verle a usted,

Desconocido,

a quien dejé ahí

anoche.

Y esta mañana

en mi boca

hay un sabor de cerveza negra

– y el pesar.

 

_____

 

 “Áiféilín”

.

Nílim chomh duairc

go bhfanfainn

fén duvet

ar feadh an lae

sin áibhéil.

Níl ann ach gur

thug mo shúil

taithneamh éigin duit,

a stróinséir

is gur fhágas

im dhiaidh tú

oíche aréir

agus go bhfuil

blas pórtair

is áiféala

im’ bhéal

ar maidin.

 

_____

 

“A Matter of Some Regret”

.

No, I’m not so depressed

as to stay

under the duvet

all day

That would be an exaggeration.

It’s just that

my eye

gladdened at the sight of you,

Stranger,

left behind

last night.

And this morning

there’s a taste of stout

and regret

in my mouth.

.

.

© Ailbhe Ní Ghearbhuigh

Translation from Irish into English:

© Gabriel Rosenstock


_____

 

“Barrio Chino”

.

Barrio chino

bullicio sin final

un sonido resaltó

entre los enredados sonidos

jalándome hacia

su súplica…

era un pescado

en una vasija poco profunda

pataleando

con mucha urgencia.

Una mujer que lo miraba

con ojos saltados

como los ojos del pescado,

alcanzando la orilla

sin esperanzas.

 

_____

 

“Herida”

 .

El Corrib* se desbordó

anoche

una poza debajo del Arco

el cielo amenaza esta mañana

y a mi casi me aplastan

en la luz roja del semáforo

un hombre de nariz aguileña

sentado en un pequeño muro,

dolor en sus ojos.

un cisne en sus brazos,

una bolsa negra la cobijaba,

una herida brillante es su blanco cuello.

.

.

*Corrib – un río en el condado de Galway, Irlanda

 

_____

 

“Chinatown”

.

rírá síoraí Chinatown

éiríonn torann amháin

os cionn an chlampair

is meallann mé chuige

lena impí…

iasc a bhí ann

in árthach íseal

ag slup slaparnach

le hoiread práinne.

Bean á fhaire

a súile ar bolgadh

amhail súil an éisc

ag cur thar maoil

le neart gan feidhm.

 

_____

 

Cneá”

.

bhris an Choirib a bruacha

aréir

bhí tuile fén bPóirse

bhagair an spéir ar maidin,

is ba dhóbair gur deineadh leircín díom

ag solas tráchta dearg

bhí fear cromógach suite

ar bhalla íseal,

goin ina shúile.

ina bhaclainn, bhí eala,

sac dubh uimpi

is cneá dearg ar a muineál bán.

 

_____

 

“Chinatown”

.

Chinatown

the racket’s neverending

one sound rose

above the jingle jangle

drawing me towards

its plea…

it was a fish

in a shallow vessel

slup-slopping about

with much urgency.

A woman watching it

her eyes bulging

like the eyes of the fish

bulging to the brim

helplessly.

.

.

Translation from the Irish: Gabriel Rosenstock

 

_____

 

“Wound”

.

the Corrib* broke its banks

last night

a pool under the Arch

the sky threatened this morning

and I was almost flattened

at a red traffic light

a hook-nosed man sat

on a low wall,

hurt in his eyes.

in his arms was a swan,

a black sack around her,

a bright red wound on her white neck.

.

.

*Corrib – a river in County Galway, Ireland

Translation from the Irish:  by the poet herself.

 

_____

About the Poet:

Ailbhe Ní Ghearbhuigh’s first collection of poetry, Péacadh, was published in 2008.  She has read poetry in Montréal, New York, Paris and Baile an Fheirtéaraigh.  She was raised speaking Irish and English, but writes in Irish only as she thinks it’s a more exciting language.

_____

Traducciones del inglés en español /

Translations from English into Spanish:

Alexander Best  (“Cuando Uno se Desespera” y “Un Tema de Cierto Pesar”)

Lidia García Garay  (“Barrio Chino” y “Herida”/ “Chinatown” and “Wound”)

_____


Caitríona Ní Chléirchín: La nueva poetisa lírica irlandesa / The new love lyricist of Irish poetry

Two scythes.

Caitríona Ní Chléirchín

(nace/born 1978, Gortmoney, Emyvale,

condado de Monaghan, Irlanda/Ireland)

“Segando con Guadaña”

.

Érase una vez, la guadaña

era afilada

con la piedra de guadaña

ocultada

debajo del tocador

por miedo de que

un niño hiciera pedazos de ella.

.

Hoy día, no quedan ni guadaña ni piedra de guadaña

sólo los pedazos de recuerdo.

 

_____


“Spealadóireacht”

.

Tráth, cuireadh

faobhar ar speal

le cloch faobhair

a cuireadh faoi cheilt

faoin drisiúr

ar eagla go ndéanfadh

leanbh conamar de.

.

Inniu, níl speal, ná cloch faobhair,

ná drisiúr a thuilleadh,

níl ach conamar na gcuimhní againn.

 

_____

 

“Scything”

.

Once, a scythe

would be sharpened

with the scything stone

hidden

under the dresser

for fear

a child would make fragments of it.

.

Today, no scythe or scything stone remains

only the fragments of memory.

 

_____

 

“Abeja”

.

Como una abeja casi en mi corazón,

apareciste floreando por mis pechos,

y todos tus besos eran las picaduras más dulces,

atrayéndome con besos-picaduras.

Hiciste la miel en mi ombligo,

pero la picadura la más grande fue entre mis piernas.

Me pinchaste

con palabras tan suaves.

Revoloteó el corazón

y debajo de ti

como un azahar o un tallo, me doblé.

Me abriste como una puerta de miel

y todo mi dulzura bebiste.

Está moteado ahora el cuerpo con picaduras azules-rojas,

con salpicadura de gema morada,

y pintada por todo con mordiscos de amor y odio.

Clavaste en mí tu aguijón,

y llena mi cabeza tu zángano.

Una abeja salvaje, un abejorro zumbando

dentro de mí para siempre,

nunca mostrándome ninguna clemencia.

 

_____


“Beach”

.

Ba gheall le beach i mo chroí thú.

Tháinig tú amach ag bláthú trí mo chíocha

is ba chealg mhilis iad na póga

cealgphógadh do mo chealgadh.

Rinne tú mil i m’imleacán,

ach chuaigh an chealg ba mhó idir an dá chos.

Phrioc tú mé

le briathra míne.

Tháinig eitilt ar mo chroí

is lúb mé fút mar bhláth, mar ghas.

D’oscail tú mé mar dhoras meala

is d’ól tú uaim

achan mhilseacht.

Anois tá mo cholainn breactha le cealga gormdhearga,

buailte le seodchealga corcra

clúdaithe le baill seirce is fuatha ó bhun go barr.

Sháigh tú ionam do chealg bheiche

is níor stad do dhordán riamh i m’inchinn.

Beach fhiáin ab ea thú, bumbóg ag crónán go síoraí ionam

is ní raibh trócaire ar bith agat dom.

 

_____

 

“Bee”

.

Like a bee almost in my heart,

you emerged flowering though my breasts,

and your every kiss was the sweetest sting,

enticing me with sting-kissing.

You made honey in my navel,

but the greatest sting went between my legs.

You pricked me

with words so gentle.

My heart fluttered

and beneath you

like a blossom or a stem, I bent.

You opened me like a honey door

and all my sweetness you drank.

My body is speckled now with blue-red stings,

with purple gem-sting stippling,

and dappled all over with love and hate bites.

You thrust your bee-sting into me,

and your drone still fills my brain.

A wild bee, a bumbling humming bee

forever inside me,

never showing any mercy.

 

 

_____

The poet  tells us:

“The ‘musics’ of Irish and English are different…In Irish you can hear the sea, the mountains,you can hear echoes of loss.  I’m not saying you can’t hear these in English – just that Irish is more musical, less clinical. English has been described by some Irish speakers as the language to sell pigs in – I think that’s too harsh.  I think in the way we speak English in Ireland you can hear the longing for Irish.  Irish is more elemental, earthy, more natural in a way – a language greatly wounded and for that reason maybe closer to the body and emotion – for me as a poet.”

_____

©  Caitríona Ní Chléirchín

Translations from Irish to English:

by the poet herself.

.

Translations from English into Spanish /

Traducciones del inglés al español:

Alexander Best (“Bee”)

Lidia García Garay (“Scything”)

_____


Moyra Donaldson: “I will grow a new tongue…”

Moyra Donaldson

(born 1956, Newtownards, Northern Ireland)

“Exile”

 

 

What ground is mine

if I would govern myself?

Where is my country

if neither bogs nor gantries

speak of me?

Where can I stand

if I am not one thing,

or the other?

*

My grandfather knew where he stood.

Ancestors planted his feet

in fertile soil, green futures were

named in his name, possessed.

He preached their flinty faith

in mission tents, visions of eternal life

on soft Ulster evenings,

*

But there was no redemption.

Not in the land, or through the Blood.

Not in the hard lessons of duty, obedience,

with which he marked his children.

*

He is stripped of virtue,

his legacy a stone

of no magic, no transcendence.

No children ever turned to swans,

wafer remains wafer on the tongue,

and flesh is always flesh.

*

My two white birds will bring me

water from the mountains,

beakfuls of sweet sips.

I will grow a new tongue,

paint my body with circles

and symbols of strength, mark myself

as one who belongs in the desert.

 

_____

 

“I Do Not”

 

 

I do not confess to anything – so when I speak

of the small dark spidery creature

skittling across the periphery of my vision –

it proves nothing.

Meaning is just an accident,

soon mopped up – those letters

were written by somebody else,

and that suitcase under the bed

does not contain my heart.

*

I do not regret anything – so when the black dog

digs up the bones I have buried

beneath the brambles, deep in the wild woods –

I am not worried.

I have allowed no prophets

to enter my house, so bones can not

stand up, grow flesh and walk.

They cast no shadows

and I have nothing to look in the face.

*

I do not promise anything – so when I lie

down with you, close as a child,

intimate as a lover, tender as a mother –

it means nothing.

Love is just a trick of the light,

a misunderstanding.

No matter who you think I am,

when it matters most,

I will not be who you want.

 

 

 

_____

First published in 2006 in the anthology

“Magnetic North” (edited by John Brown),

Moyra Donaldson’s poems

are here reprinted by permission of

The Lagan Press, Belfast, Northern Ireland.


Serious Humour north of 54 degrees latitude: Dan Eggs

_____


“Spin Dryer and Washing Machine”

 

 

The spin dryer’s moved in with the washing machine,

they’re living together, you know what I mean, I believe the spin dryer’s

the clothes bin’s mum, he came out of her rotating aerated drum,

she takes the day off when the weather’s fine, then he does a line

with the clothes line, they live in an outhouse without any fuss, are

these household appliances quite like us?  (The washing machine once

spilt his load because he was in fast coloureds mode).

 

_____

 

“Sunday Morning”

 

 

The cow in the field chews the grass, she never thinks about going to

Mass, the little bird sitting high on the birch, he and his friends don’t

think about church, the wasps in the dustbin devouring the apple, what

do they know about going to chapel, the elderly lady sits in her pew,

while her young son watches Kung Fu.

 

_____

Dan Eggs’ poems first appeared in the

2006 anthology, “Magnetic North” (edited by John Brown).

There are reprinted here by permission of

The Lagan Press, Belfast, Northern Ireland.


Poems for Saint Patrick’s Day: Love and The Poet / Poemas para el Día de San Patricio: Amor y El Poeta

William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

“Memoria” (1919)

Una tenía la cara linda,

Y dos o tres eran encantadoras,

Pero cara y encanto fueron en vano

Porque la hierba de la sierra

Siempre conserva la forma

Donde se ha tendido la liebre del monte.

_____

“Canción de Muchacha” (1933)


Salí sola

Para cantar una canción o dos,

Se me antoja un hombre

Y usted sabe quien es.

*

Otro se apareció

que dependía de un bastón

Para estar de pié;

Me senté y lloré.

*

Y ésta fue toda mi canción

– cuando todo ha sido dicho

¿Vi a un anciano joven,

O a un joven anciano?

_____

 “Canción para beber” (1910)

El vino entra vía la boca

Y el amor entra vía el ojo;

Es toda la verdad que sabremos

Antes de envejecer y morir.

Levanto el vaso a mi boca,

Te miro, y suspiro.

_____

“La Espuela” (1936)

Tu piensas que es horrible que lujuria y furia

Me adoran en la vejez…

No eran una peste cuando yo era joven;

¿Tengo algo más para espolearme cantar?

_____

“Un Voto Jurado en lo Más Profundo” (1919)

Habían otros – porque no cumpliste

Ese voto jurado en lo más profundo – que han sido amigos míos;

Pero siempre cuando miro a la muerte en la cara,

Cuando trepo a las cumbres de sueño,

O cuando me estremezco con el vino,

De súbito me encuentro con tu cara.

__________

William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

“Memory” (1919)

One had a lovely face,

And two or three had charm,

But charm and face were in vain

Because the mountain grass

Cannot but keep the form

Where the mountain hare has lain.

_____

“Girl’s Song” (1933)

I went out alone

To sing a song or two,

My fancy on a man,

And you know who.

*

Another came in sight

That on a stick relied

To hold himself upright;

I sat and cried.

*

And that was all my song

–  when everything is told,

Saw I an old man young

Or young man old?

_____

“Drinking Song” (1910)

Wine comes in at the mouth

And love comes in at the eye;

That’s all we shall know for truth

Before we grow old and die.

I lift the glass to my mouth,

I look at you, and I sigh.

Poteen Drinkers by Brian Whelan_2011

“The Spur” (1936)

You think it horrible that lust and rage

Should dance attention upon my old age;

They were not such a plague when I was young;

What else have I to spur me into song?

_____

“A deep-sworn vow” (1919)

Others because you did not keep

That deep-sworn vow have been friends of mine;

Yet always when I look death in the face,

When I clamber to the heights of sleep,

Or when I grow excited with wine,

Suddenly I meet your face.

_____

Translation into Spanish /

Traducción en español:  Alexander Best


“Los San Patricios” de 1847 / The “Saint Patrick’s Battalion” of 1847