Poems for Saint Patrick’s Day: Jenkinson, Davitt, Ó Searcaigh, Ní Dhomhnaill

Posted: March 17, 2013 | Author: Zócalo Poets | Filed under: English, Irish | Tags: Poems for Saint Patrick's Day |Comments Off on Poems for Saint Patrick’s Day: Jenkinson, Davitt, Ó Searcaigh, Ní Dhomhnaill

Biddy Jenkinson (born 1949)

“Cruit Dhubhrois”

.

Bruith do laidhre im théada ceoil

ag corraíl fós, a chruitire,

clingeadh nóna ar crith go fóill

im chéis is an oíche ag ceiliúradh.

.

Oíche thláith, gan siolla aeir,

a ghabhann chuici sinechrith

mo shreangán nó go dtéann falsaer

grá mar rithí ceoil faoin mbith,

.

Go gcroitheann criogar a thiompán,

go gcnagann cosa briosca míl,

go sioscann fionnadh liath leamhain,

go bpleancann damhán téada a lín.

.

Is tá mo chroí mar fhuaimnitheoir

do chuisleoirí na cruinne cé

ón uair gur dhein mé fairsing ann

don raidhse tuilteach againn féin.

.

Nuair a leagann damhán géag

go bog ar théada rite a líne

léimeann mo théada féin chun ceoil

á ngléasadh féin dod láimhseáil chruinn.

 

.     .     .

 

“The Harp of Dubhros”

.

Harper, hot your fingers still

stirring me on every string,

look, the night has climbed the hill

yet your noon-day strummings ring.

.

Balmy night bereft of air

slowly take the murmur-strain!

All that is, was ever there,

fugued to fullness and love’s reign.

.

Until the cricket’s drumming rasp,

and insect leg of silver gut,

grey moth-fur emits a gasp,

on music’s web the spider-strut!

.

A sounding box within my chest

for busy buskers everywhere,

for every decibel compressed

recurring in the brightening air.

.

When the spider tests his weave

sweetly on each glistening line:

all my harp-strings leap and heave

– knowing that the tuning’s fine.

 

.

Translation from Irish © Gabriel Rosenstock

 

.     .     .

 

Michael Davitt (1950 – 2005)

“An Sceimhlitheoir”

.

Tá na coiscéimeanna tar éis filleadh arís.

B’fhada a gcosa gan lúth gan

fuaim.

.

Seo trasna mo bhrollaigh iad

is ní féidir liom

corraí;

.

stadann tamall is amharcann siar

thar a ngualainn is deargann

toitín.

.

Táimid i gcúlsráid dhorcha gan lampa

is cloisim an té ar leis

iad

.

is nuair a dhírím air féachaint cé atá ann

níl éinne

ann

.

ach a choiscéimeanna

ar comhchéim le mo

chroí.

 

.     .     .

 

“The Terrorist”

.

The footsteps have returned again.

The feet for so long still

and silent.

.

Here they go across my breast

and I cannot

resist;

.

they stop for a while, glance

over the shoulder, light

a cigarette.

.

We are in an unlit backstreet

and I can hear who

they belong to

.

and when I focus to make him out

I see there is

no one

.

but his footsteps

keeping step with my

heart.

 

 

.

Translation from Irish: Michael Davitt / Philip Casey

 

.     .     .

 

Cathal Ó Searcaigh (born 1956)

“I gCeann Mo Thrí Bliana A Bhí Mé”

(do Anraí Mac Giolla Chomhaill)

.

“Sin clábar! Clábar cáidheach,

a chuilcigh,” a dúirt m’athair go bagrach

agus mé ag slupairt go súgach

i ndíobhóg os cionn an bhóthair.

“Amach leat as do chuid clábair

sula ndéanfar tú a chonáil!”

.

Ach choinnigh mé ag spágáil agus ag splaiseáil

agus ag scairtigh le lúcháir:

“Clábar! Clábar! Seo mo chuid clábair!”

Cé nár chiallaigh an focal faic i mo mheabhair

go dtí gur mhothaigh mé i mo bhuataisí glugar

agus trí gach uile líbín de mo cheirteacha

creathanna fuachta na tuisceana.

.

A chlábar na cinniúna, bháigh tú mo chnámha.

 

.     .     .

 

“When I was three”

(for Anraí Mac Giolla Chomhaill)

.

“That’s muck! Filthy muck, you little scamp,”

my father was so severe in speech

while I was messing happily

in my mud-trench by the road.

“Out with you from that muck

before you freeze to death!”

.

But I continued shuffling, having fun,

all the time screaming with delight:

“Muck! Muck! It’s my own muck!”

But the word was nothing in my innocence

until I felt the squelch of wellies

and, through the dripping of wet clothes,

the shivering knowledge of water.

.

Ah! Muck of destiny, you drenched my bones!

 

.

Translation from Irish © Thomas Mc Carthy

.     .     .

Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill (born 1952)

“Ceist na Teangan”

.

Cuirim mo dhóchas ar snámh

i mbáidín teangan

faoi mar a leagfá naíonán

i gcliabhán

a bheadh fite fuaite

de dhuilleoga feileastraim

is bitiúman agus pic

bheith cuimilte lena thóin

.

ansan é a leagadh síos

i measc na ngiolcach

is coigeal na mban sí

le taobh na habhann,

féachaint n’fheadaraís

cá dtabharfaidh an struth é,

féachaint, dála Mhaoise,

an bhfóirfidh iníon Fháiróinn?

 

.     .     .

 

“The Language Issue”

.

I place my hope on the water

in this little boat

of the language, the way a body might put

an infant

.

in a bucket of intertwined

iris leaves,

its underside proofed

with bituman and pitch.

.

then set the whole thing down amidst

the sedge

and bulrushes by the edge

of a river

.

only to have it borne hither and thither,

not knowing where it might end up;

in the lap, perhaps,

of some Pharaoh’s daughter.

 

.

Translation from Irish © Paul Muldoon

.     .     .     .     .

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