Latha Naomh Anndra / Scottish Gaelic poems for Saint Andrew’s Day: Sorley Maclean

Posted: November 30, 2012 | Author: Zócalo Poets | Filed under: English, Gaelic: Scottish, Sorley Maclean |Comments Off on Latha Naomh Anndra / Scottish Gaelic poems for Saint Andrew’s Day: Sorley Maclean

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Sorley Maclean (Somhairle MacGill-Eain)

(Raasay, Scotland, 1911-1996)

“Should I even strip off…”

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Should I even strip off

My deceit-proof clothing

And go naked and eager

As a blaze of supreme reason,

I’d then reach the core-love

Of my reason for living

And I’d add to your pleasure

The blaze of supreme reason.

 

.     .     .

 

“Ged chuirinn dhiom éideadh”

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Ged chuirinn dhiom éideadh

Faireachaidh na cluaineis

‘S nam falbhainn 10m gleusta

‘Nam chaoir céille buadhmhoir,

Ruiginn an-sin cré-ghaol

Mo chéille luaidhe

‘S liùbhrainn do t’ éibhneas

Caoir na céille buadhmhoir.

 

.     .     .

 

“Calvary”

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My eye is not on Calvary

nor on Bethlehem the Blessed,

but on a foul-smelling backland in Glasgow,

where life rots as it grows;

and on a room in Edinburgh,

a room of poverty and pain,

where the diseased infant

writhes and wallows till death.

“Calbharaigh”

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Chan eil mo shùil air Calbharaigh

no air Betlehem an àigh

ach air cùil ghrod an Glaschu

far bheil an lobhadh fàis,

agus air seòmar an Dùn Èideann,

seòmar bochdainn ’s cràidh,

far a bheil an naoidhean creuchdach

ri aonagraich gu bhàs.

 

.     .     .

 

“The Choice”

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I walked with my reason

out beside the sea.

We were together but it was

keeping a little distance from me.

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Then it turned saying:

is it true you heard

that your beautiful white love

is getting married early on Monday?

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I checked the heart that was rising

in my torn swift breast

and I said: most likely;

why should I lie about it?

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How should I think that I would grab

the radiant golden star,

that I would catch it and put it

prudently in my pocket?

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I did not take a cross’s death

in the hard extremity of Spain

and how then should I expect

the one new prize of fate?

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I followed only a way

that was small, mean, low, dry, lukewarm,

and how then should I meet

the thunderbolt of love?

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But if I had the choice again

and stood on that headland,

I would leap from heaven or hell

with a whole spirit and heart.

 

.     .     .

 

“An Roghainn”

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Choisich mi cuide ri mo thuigse

a-muigh ri taobh a’ chuain;

bha sinn còmhla ach bha ise

a’ fuireach tiotan bhuam.

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An sin thionndaidh i ag ràdha:

a bheil e fìor gun cual’

thu gu bheil do ghaol geal àlainn

a’ pòsadh tràth Diluain?

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Bhac mi ’n cridhe bha ’g èirigh

’nam bhroilleach reubte luath

is thubhairt mi: tha mi cinnteach;

carson bu bhreug e bhuam?

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Ciamar a smaoinichinn gun glacainn

an rionnag leugach òir,

gum beirinn oirre ’s gun cuirinn i

gu ciallach ’na mo phòc?

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Cha d’ ghabh mise bàs croinn-ceusaidh

an èiginn chruaidh na Spàinn

is ciamar sin bhiodh dùil agam

ri aon duais ùir an dàin?

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Cha do lean mi ach an t-slighe chrìon

bheag ìosal thioram thlàth,

is ciamar sin a choinnichinn

ri beithir-theine ghràidh?

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Ach nan robh ’n roghainn rithist dhomh

’s mi ’m sheasamh air an àird,

leumainn à neamh no iutharna

le spiorad ’s cridhe slàn.

 

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