Latha Naomh Anndra / Scottish Gaelic poems for Saint Andrew’s Day: Sorley Maclean
Posted: November 30, 2012 Filed under: English, Gaelic: Scottish, Sorley Maclean Comments Off on Latha Naomh Anndra / Scottish Gaelic poems for Saint Andrew’s Day: Sorley Maclean.
Sorley Maclean (Somhairle MacGill-Eain)
(Raasay, Scotland, 1911-1996)
“Should I even strip off…”
.
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”
.
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”
.
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.
ZP_Glasgow Street, Toronto, Canada
“Calbharaigh”
.
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”
.
I walked with my reason
out beside the sea.
We were together but it was
keeping a little distance from me.
.
Then it turned saying:
is it true you heard
that your beautiful white love
is getting married early on Monday?
.
I checked the heart that was rising
in my torn swift breast
and I said: most likely;
why should I lie about it?
.
How should I think that I would grab
the radiant golden star,
that I would catch it and put it
prudently in my pocket?
.
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?
.
I followed only a way
that was small, mean, low, dry, lukewarm,
and how then should I meet
the thunderbolt of love?
.
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”
.
Choisich mi cuide ri mo thuigse
a-muigh ri taobh a’ chuain;
bha sinn còmhla ach bha ise
a’ fuireach tiotan bhuam.
.
An sin thionndaidh i ag ràdha:
a bheil e fìor gun cual’
thu gu bheil do ghaol geal àlainn
a’ pòsadh tràth Diluain?
.
Bhac mi ’n cridhe bha ’g èirigh
’nam bhroilleach reubte luath
is thubhairt mi: tha mi cinnteach;
carson bu bhreug e bhuam?
.
Ciamar a smaoinichinn gun glacainn
an rionnag leugach òir,
gum beirinn oirre ’s gun cuirinn i
gu ciallach ’na mo phòc?
.
Cha d’ ghabh mise bàs croinn-ceusaidh
an èiginn chruaidh na Spàinn
is ciamar sin bhiodh dùil agam
ri aon duais ùir an dàin?
.
Cha do lean mi ach an t-slighe chrìon
bheag ìosal thioram thlàth,
is ciamar sin a choinnichinn
ri beithir-theine ghràidh?
.
Ach nan robh ’n roghainn rithist dhomh
’s mi ’m sheasamh air an àird,
leumainn à neamh no iutharna
le spiorad ’s cridhe slàn.
. . . . .
Zócalo Poets 