Toircheas 1

An féidir scríobh ar chiúineas? — Ar an tslí

a sheolann gaileoin néalta tríd an aer,

a seolta arda, bolgacha, gan chorraí

is ar dheis, an ghrian, gan gíocs, ag sleamhnú faoi?

An loch ina leamhach, ach bolgáin ag éirí

thall is abhus i bhfianaise go bhfuil éisc

ag scuaideáil thíos sa doimhneas is an liús

ocrach ar thóir a ghoblaigh gan stop ná staonadh.

Ins an chré phatfhuar, thais, tá síol gan chorraí.

Ba dhóigh leat a anáil tairrigthe ag an saol. San eadarlinn

éalaíonn luid deireanach an tsolais ó bhun go barr binne

faoi mar a éalaíonn go minic an mhéanfach ó dhuine go duine.

Ark of the Covenant

How can I begin to explain my quiet to you?

As the sleepwalk of treasure-laden clouds,

Their full sails poised and stationary?

As the sun’s speechless exit, stage right?

Or where, in the flat stomach of the lake,

Sporadic bubbles betray the insatiable pike

Orbiting the eternal dark for the fish

That marshal in their mouthfuls?

A seed lies dormant in the damp, sunless clay

Despite the world’s having difficulty breathing,

And the last opening of light fades

From peak to peak like an infectious yawn.

Translation by Medbh McGuckian

Geasa

Má chuirim aon lámh ar an dtearmann beannaithe,

má thógaim droichead thar an abhainn,

gach a mbíonn tógtha isló ages na ceardaithe

bíonn sé leagtha ar maidin romham.

Tagann aníos an abhainn istoíche bád

is bean ina seasamh inti

Tá coinneal ar lasadh ina súil is ina lámha.

Tá dhá mhaide rámha aici.

Tairrigíonn sí amach paca cártaí,

‘An imréofá breith?’ a deireann sí.

Imrímid is buann sí orm de shíor

is cuireann sí de cheist, de bhreith is de mhórualach orm

Gan an tarna béile a ithe in aon tigh,

ná an tarna oíche a chaitheamh faoi aon díon,

gan dhá shraic chodlata a dhéanamh ar aon leaba

go bhfaighead í. Nuair a fhiafraím di cá mbíonn sí,

‘Dá mba siar é soir,’ a deireann sí, ‘da mba soir é siar.’

Imíonn sí léi agus splancacha tintrí léi

is fágtar ansan mé ar an bport.

Tá an dá choinneal fós ar lasadh le mo thaobh.

D’fhág sí na maidí rámha agam.

The Bond

If I use my forbidden hand

To raise a bridge across the river,

All the work of the builders

Has been blown up by sunrise.

A boat comes up the river by night

With a woman standing in it,

Twin candles lit in her eyes

And two oars in her hands.

She unsheathes a pack of cards,

‘Will you play forfeits?’ she says.

We play and she beats me hands down,

And she puts three banns upon me:

Not to have two meals in one house,

Not to pass two nights under one roof,

Not to sleep twice with the same man

Until I find her. When I ask her address,

‘If it were north I’d tell you south,

If it were east, west.’ She hooks

Off in a flash of lightning, leaving me

Stranded on the bank,

My eyes full of candles,

And the two dead oars.

Translation by Medbh McGuckian

Madame

Madame laistíos de loch,

do rúmanna geala

ina mbíodh mairt á leagadh

is caoirigh ar bhearaibh.

do chúirteanna aolda

ar oileáin ag imeall na mara

nó ag íor na spéire

a bhíodh de shíor am mhealladh

ó thrath m’óige i leith.

Ní tigh draighin é ná tigh

cárthainn do ionad cónaithe

ach halla airneáin.

Tá fiche troigh i leithead

a dhorais, tá díon

air de chleití éan

dearg is gorm.

Ní gá fuinneoga a dhúnadh

anseo, ná doirse;

is cuma, mar tá

gach aon ní fliuch.

Is tá mo mháthair á treorú

agam i do choinne,

thar dhroichead gloine,

cos ar chos is rícháiréiseach

gach coiscéim a chuireann sí roimpi

ach tá ag éirí linn.

Ag tairseach do ghrianáin soilsigh

tagann fuarallas orm

ar an leac,

ag an doras roithleánach

a bhíonn de shíor is choíche

ag casadh ar mhórdtuathal,

mar éinne a théann suas

do staighre cloch

ní fheictear arís é

go brách.

Madame

Lady under the lake

Your bright rooms

Where they are killing bullocks

And sheep are turning on spits,

Your whitewashed courts

On islands near the coast

Or touching the horizon

Have been seducing me

Ever since I was a child.

Your dwelling is no

Tree-house, woven shelter

But a hall to feast in.

The door is twenty

Feet wide, the roof

Made of birds’ feathers

Red and blue

No need here to shut

Windows or doors —

It makes no odds, the water

Enters everywhere.

And I am guiding

My mother towards you

Across a bridge of glass,

With careful steps

A tentative foot forward,

But we are arriving.

In the doorway of your sunny chamber

A cold sweat comes over me

On the doorstep,

At the revolving door

Constantly

Turning widdershins,

For the one that mounts

Your stone staircase

Will never be

Seen again.

Translation by Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin

Leaba Shioda

Do chóireoinn leaba duit

i Leaba Shíoda

sa bhféar ard

faoi iomrascáil na gcrann

is bheadh do chraiceann ann

mar shíoda ar shioda

sa doircheacht

am lonnaithe na leamhan.

Craiceann a shníonn

go gléineach thar do ghéaga

mar bhainne á dháil as crúiscíní

am lóin

is tréad gabhar ag gabháil thar chnocáin

do chuid gruaige

cnocáin ar a bhfuil faillte arda

is dhá ghleann atá domhain.

Is bheadh do bheola taise

ar mhilseacht shiúcra

tráthnóna is sinn ag spaisteoireacht

cois abhann

is na gaotha meala

ag séideadh thar an Sionna

is na fiúisí ag beannú duit

ceann ar cheann.

Na fiúisí ag ísliú

a gceanna maorga

ag umhlú síos don áilleacht

os a gcomhair

is do phriocfainn péire acu

mar shiogairlíní

is do mhaiseoinn do chluasa

mar bhrídeog.

Ó, chóireoinn leaba duit

i Leaba Shíoda

le hamhascarnach an lae

i ndeireadh thall

is ba mhór an pléisiúr dúinn

bheith géaga ar ghéaga

ag iomrascáil

am lonnaithe na leamhan.

Labysheedy (The Silken Bed)

I'd make a bed for you
in Labysheedy
in the tall grass
under the wrestling trees
where your skin
would be silk upon silk
in the darkness
when the moths are coming down.

Skin which glistens
shining over your limbs
like milk being poured
from jugs at dinnertime;
your hair is a herd of goats
moving over rolling hills,
hills that have high cliffs
and two ravines.

And your damp lips
would be as sweet as sugar

at evening and we walking
by the riverside
with honeyed breezes
blowing over the Shannon
and the fuchsias bowing down to you
one by one.

The fuchsias bending low
their solemn heads in obeisance to the beauty
in front of them
I would pick a pair of flowers

as pendant earrings
to adorn you
like a bride in shining clothes.

O I'd make a bed for you
in Labysheedy,
in the twilight hour
with evening falling slow
and what a pleasure it would be
to have our limbs entwine
wrestling
while the moths are coming down. 

Translation by Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill