2017-06-26

THE EMIGRANT/ AN DEORAÍ

Nach minic, is mé cortha ag an ór nach raibh im’ lámh,
Gur éalaigh osna uaim, a Mháithrín ó
Ag taibhreamh dom faoi luí na gréine ar an trá
Nó sna goirt ríse is an ghaoth ag séideadh fadó!
Nach minic is an dóchas ionam ag éag
Gur chuas i bhfolach id’ bhrollachsa glas-aoibhinn án –
Ba thú an tearmann caol thug scíth dom ghéag’
Is mé ag teitheadh ón domhan ’bhí sioctha ina lár!

Tá séipéilín ina sheasamh ar chnocán liath:
Is ann a baisteadh mise im’ bhunóc
Is ann a luíonn mo mháthair, leis, le Dia
Is ghuífinn ann is d’éireoinn as an tóir.
A thír na sean! Lig don aos óg
Bheith bródúil as an bhfód seo i mo dhiaidh.
 

Armando Menezes (Goa)

The Emigrant
(1933)

How often, wearied with ungotten gold,
Have I, O Mother, dreamed and, dreaming, sighed
For the pure gold of thy sunsets and the tide
Of golden ricefields when the wind is bold!
How often, when sick hope has lost its hold,
Have I in thy green bosom yearned to hide—
Thou narrow haven from a world so wide,
Thou cosy shelter from a world so cold!

Upon a low gray hill there stands a church:
They say it was there that they christened me.
There, too, my mother sleeps; there I alone
Would pray — pray and forget this fruitless search.
Land of my fathers! May’st thou also be
The land my children shall be proud to own.

Armando Menezes (Goa)

2017-06-25

Teacht le Chéile

Bhí nós aisteach ag m’uncail daoine a thabhairt le chéile.
Thógfadh sé cúigear is fiche mura miste leat ar turas.

Abair: Aintín Perpetual a raibh a hucht gearrtha,
d’ardaíodh sí a t-léine i gcónaí chun an scéal a insint dúinn,
Avo a sheasadh agus a dhéanadh a mhún ar nós sioráif,
Milton, col ceathar, ag cur síos ar threabhsar daoine is brístíní,
Uncail Kaitaan a scar óna bhean sular chaill sé a radharc
agus cathrú air ar bhreathnú siar dó,

nó Aintín Bertha a raibh an oiread sin grá aici dá fear
go mba bhreá leo cithfholcthaí picnice dá gcolainn liobarnach tar éis 40 bliain
(an lánúin a fholcann le chéile...),

Aintín Nysa a staon ó bhia le bheith seang is a d’éirigh feosaí
mar nach ionann a bheith aon kg níos éadroime agus a bheith níos óige,
agus Aintín Alice a bhí colscartha nuair a bhain teir lena leithéid.

Uncail Wilfred a raibh nath cainte aige do gach ócáid
sa Choncáinis liriciúil
rud a d’imeallódh a chuid naimhde
faoi mar a imeallaíodh eisean toisc é a bheith beo bocht.

M’athairse ag cúlú leis i gcónaí ó rothaíocht
na bpáistí,
agus ó chiorcal na beatha is rothaí móra an tsaoil.

Bheadh cúpla uncail spártha suite i gcónaí ar chathaoireacha plaisteacha
leis na tiománaithe is na garraíodóirí
agus buidéil alcóil á n-oscailt go sollúnta acu.

Bheadh piollaí torthúlachta ag Aintín Cassandra
clocha míle páistí eile aici á gcomhaireamh
gaois loiteoige na dea-thuismitheoireachta á cleachtadh aici.

Aintín Matilda ar fithis le curaí, sorpotel,
is gríscíní a friochadh i seimilín is ola shaor lus na gréine.
Fuair daoine an-bhlas ar a cuid ofrálacha dea-mhéine
ach níor thugadar riamh cuireadh chun cóisire di.

Agus maidir leis na searbhóntaí!
Cothrom na féinne le plátaí dinnéir
a gcloigeann lan de mhíolta,
bríste gairid orthu, cíochbheart lasmuigh den t-léine.
Toitíní garbha á gcaitheamh acu, ag crochadh thart
ar chol ceathracha na gceathrún griandaite cruicéid,
ag scigireacht ar chol ceathrair Milton gur ainteagmhaíodh leo
is cuireadh abhaile iad.

M’aintín – bean m’uncail – bheadh spéis aici
i ngach anraith agus an t-oideas,
ba chuma cén tigh nó óstán ina rabhamar.

Ní éalódh aon ní uaithi
fiu agus nóibhéine laethúil ar siúl, clog an aingil nó an paidrín:
an ceangal idir Martha agus Rosie, aon chineál amháin iad,
an obair fhíolagráin ar bhráisléid óir Avo,
an tuarastal a thuill Uncail Jimmy,
na marcanna a thug Edith abhaile.
Ghiorraíodh m’uncail an bóthar
le jócanna luchanna eaglaise ar thraenacha go Goa
agus sos againn ag Miraj.
Chliceáladh sé pictiúir d’Eas Dudhsagar
leis an panache céanna sin
a mbuaileadh Uncail Fred agus Tony an cac as a a gcéile mná
agus d’fhuaigh Aintí Emma an taobh amuigh
de phóca a céile siúd
ionas nach dtabharfadh sé iasacht d’éinne níos mó.

Aon uair a mbíodh Edith ar bharr an ranga
bhí sé ina raic eadrainn – na páistí eile.
Nuair a fuair sí jab agus tuarastal ard,
bhí m’aintín ag lorg náideanna i ngach éinne
ar nós comhábhar in anraith.

Marcanna arda ná airgead ní raibh againne.
Íochtaráin ab ea sinn, pátrúin na bochtaineachta.

Níor linne riamh an lá
lascadh ár n-aintín sinn lena stánadh gormshúileach
i seomra lán de chomhluadar.

Rochelle Potkar (Goa)

Gathering

My uncle had a strange habit of gathering people.
Not less than 25 he would take on an outing.

Like: Aunty Perpetual with her breast cut
who would lift her t-shirt every time to show us her story,
Avo who would stand and take a piss like a giraffe,
Cousin Milton who would talk about everyone’s pants and panties,
Uncle Kaitaan who divorced his wife just before he turned blind
and regretted it in hindsight,

or Aunt Bertha who loved her husband so much
they still bathed under picnic showers and sagging flesh of 40 years
(a couple that bathes together…),

Aunt Nysa who starved to look thin and ended up haggard
because one kg less is not a year younger,
and Aunt Alice who was divorced when that was still a stigma.

Uncle Wilfred had one phrase for every occasion
in lyrical Konkani
aimed to marginalize his opponents
who had marginalized him because of his poverty.

My father would step further and further away
from the kids cycling,
as he would from the circle of life and everyone’s life cycles.

A few spare uncles would always sit on plastic chairs
with the chauffeurs and gardeners
inaugurating alcohol bottles.

Aunt Cassandra would be on a fertility pill
counting milestones of other’s children and
practising her lotus-like parenting wisdom.

Matilda aunt orbited around with curries, sorpotel,
and cutlets fried in rava and cheap sunflower oil.
People relished her friendship-offerings
but never invited her for their parties.

And the servants!
Equal of equals on the dinner plates
with their heads full of lice,
they wore shorts, and their bras outside their t-shirts.
They smoked beedis, hovered around the male cousins
with bronzed cricket thighs,
and giggled at cousin Milton until they were molested,
and shunted home.

My aunty – Uncle’s wife - would be interested
in every soup and its recipe,
never mind which house or hotel we were in.

Nothing escaped her sight
even in daily novenas, angelus, or rosaries:
the peas-in-the pulav bond between Martha and Rosie,
the filigreed work on Avo’s gold bangles,
the salary Jimmy uncle earned,
the marks Edith brought home.

My uncle would cut long journeys short
with church mouse jokes on trains to Goa
with break journeys at Miraj.
He would click pictures of Dudh-sagar
with as much panache
as Uncles Fred and Tony beat up their wives
and Aunty Emma stitched her husband’s pocket
from the opening outside
so he wouldn’t lend any more money.

Every time Edith topped her class
there would be mayhem for all of us - the other children.
When she got a job with a heavy pay packet,
my aunt searched for zeros in every person,
like ingredients in a soup.

We had neither high marks nor the money.
We were the pariahs, patrons of penury.

The day never belonged to us
as our aunt whipped us with her blue-eyed gaze
in this room full of people.

Rochelle Potkar (Goa)

2017-06-24

Haiku

a bhfuil fágtha
den oíche
dhá phréachán ar ghéag

all that's left
of the night
two crows on a branch

केवल यही बचा है
इस रात का
दो कौए एक टहनी पर


i m'aonar anocht
leis na torbáin
leis an gcruinne

alone tonight
with tadpoles
with the universe

अकेला हूँ आज रात
बैंगचीयों के साथ
ब्रह्मांड के साथ

caoirigh sléibhe
faoin gceo
ag cogaint na cruinne

mountain sheep
in mist
chewing the universe

पहाड़ी भेड़ें
धुंध में
विश्व को चबा रहीं

grian íseal
scáileanna ar a dteitheadh
thar pháirceanna catha

low sun
shadows fleeing
across battlefields

सूर्य नीचे हुआ
परछाइयाँ भागीं
रणक्षेत्रों के पार

Hiondúis/ Hindi: Angelee Deodhar


2017-06-23

Cead


Ar oileán Divar
uisce báistí
sa phúitse plaisteach
os cionn an ghlais
a dhúnann an t-áitreabh go daingean

cloigne fiosracha
na mbrobh féir
tríd an ngeata miotail

dhá bhumbóg
ina gcuar tríd an gclós cúirte
agus buíon seangán
ar fud scoilteanna an chabhsa
is a mhósáic breac le caonach

tarraingíonn damhán alla dearg
téada an phúca
ón ngeata miotail
go dtí tor monsúin

féileacán liathghorm
a sciatháin á n-oscailt is a ndúnadh aige
ar imeall an chláir

a gheallann
go mbeidh droch-chríoch
ar éinne a thagann isteach
gan chead

Salil Chaturvedi


2017-06-22

Do M’Athair Céad Bliain i ndiaidh a Bhreithe (1966)

Agus m’athairse ag saothrú an bháis, an glothar le clos
Agus mo dhá lámh timpeall air,
An chuid eile go léir ar a nglúine, ag osnaíl ghoil
Paidreacha na marbh acu á rá go creathánach –
‘Ar do ghlúine!’ ar sé faoi mar go raibh a anam ag brath air.
Is nuair a thiteas-sa ar mo ghlúine laga,
Tháinig séimhe iontach ar a ghnúis shuaite,
Na roic ag samhrú go bláth na hóige,
Le heite ghléineach do chuimil an bás leis.

A Athair, b’eol duit gur shléacht m’anamsa
Roimh gach ní, á n-adhradh le grá:
Bhraitheas ó m’óige i leith an Diagacht
Sa duine agus sa dúlra, bíodh is nárbh eol dom É Féin,
Agus leanas le hardlúcháir nó faoi shíocháin
An uile ní sofheicthe is dofheicthe a bhog.
Bhí an svae sin ar m’anam chomh tréan sin
Go mba pheaca im’ shúilese é gach gotha
Ar nós cuma liom is gach réchúis thámh.
Bhí an rud a bhí Fíor chomh fíor sin gur múchadh
Gach deasghnáth, gach nós, siombail is cleachtas
A raibh cuisle gheal na Fírinne sin in easnamh orthu.

Thuigeas-sa leis le blianta fada
Go raibh Cumhacht éigin a leath a fallaing orm,
Máthartha is athartha, grámhar nó cruaidh,
Ag oibriú ionam, maitrís na smaointe go léir,
Gach maitheas is gach áilleacht ag doirteadh trí m’aigne.
Is minic mé ag stánadh ar rud éigin a scríobhas
Ag déanamh iontais cad as a dtáinig sé; is thuigeas gan mhoill
Go mba leor mar bhuíochas an tsíocháin gan choinne.

Níor fhoghlaimíos-sa conas glúin na colainne a fheacadh –
Ró-umhal chun an umhlaíocht a chur ar paráid,
Nó eagla orm an ní neamhdhiaga a adhradh –
Ach im’ chroí istigh mé féin á ísliú agam
Roimh an bhFírinne ghlórmhar, thar aon uair eile
Im’ sheasamh suas caol díreach dom, dána, ceannairceach.

Mar sin ní raibh rath orm, sa chiall atá ag an saol
Don rath, ach go domhain istigh i m’anam
Tá tobar ríméid nach raghaidh i ndísc go deo,
Is an tsíocháin do mo ghríosú i gcogar, gan de neart ionam
Ach an neart sin a thagann as aigne mhacánta:
Níl slí anseo don rath ná don mhírath;
Leanann an saol ar aghaidh i nDia, agus sé Dia is fearr a thuigeann,
D’fhéadfadh duine i mbun urnaí a bheith baoth.

Mar sin más fiáin a bhí mo shaolsa
Ar mo ghlúine a bhíos de shíor roimh an gCumhacht sin
Atá timpeall orainn, ionainn agus trínn,
Is léir dúinn an lúcháir agus an tsíth a bhaineann léi
Nuair a chromtar os a comhair go domhain inár gcroí.
Tá a fhios agat le tríocha bliain é: táimse á rá anois.

Armando Menezes



To My Father,
On The Centenary of His Birth
(1966)


My father when he died, already when the rattle
Had set in and I held him in my arms,
While all the rest were kneeling and with sobs
The office for the dead was shivered, cried―
As if his soul were staked upon it―‘Kneel!’
And when I fell on trembling guilty knees,
A great peace came upon his troubled face,
Its furrows summered to the bloom of youth,
And death had brushed him with a luminous wing.

Father, you knew not that my soul had knelt
In worship and in love before all things:

From childhood have I felt Divinity
In man and nature, though I knew it not,
And followed with ecstatic peace or joy
Each seen or unseen motion of all things.
So strong has been this empire o’er my soul,
That every gesture of indifference,
Or dull complacence was to me a sin.
The Real was so real, that it drowned
All rites, conventions, symbols, practices
That lacked the bright pulsation of this Truth.

And I have also known, for long, long years,
A feeling of some Power that wrapped me round,
Maternal and paternal, fond or hard,
That worked through me, was matrix of all thoughts
Of good or beauty pouring through my mind.
Oft have I stared at something that I wrote
And wondered whence it came; but soon have guessed,
Until a sudden peace was thanks enough.


I have not learnt to bend the body’s knee―
Too humble to parade humility,
Or fearful to adore the undivine―
But ever in my heart abased myself
Before the glorious Truth, most when I seemed
To stand upright in rebel insolence.

Therefore I have not thrived, as the world knows
Of thriving, but within my deepest soul
There is a well of unexhausted joy,
And peace that whispers courage, with no strength
But what must issue from a sincere mind:
No room is here for failure or success;
For life in God goes on, and God knows best
A man can be most foolish when he prays.

Therefore my life, however wild, has been
Perpetual genuflection to that Power
That works around, within us and through us,
And gives us joy and peace as we have learnt
To bow before It in our inmost heart.
You have known it thirty years: I say it now.

2017-06-21

Óráit : Óid I. 11 [Horace]

Óid 1.11

A Leucóin, ní ceadmhach d'éinne a chinniúint a léamh,
tusa ná mise: ná fiafraigh, ná téigh sa tóir ar fhreagraí
i nduilleoga tae ná pailme. Bí foighneach lena dtagann.
D'fhéadfadh gurb é seo an geimhreadh deireanach againn, nó tuilleadh
ag teacht is Muir na Toscáine á radadh acu ar na carraigeacha seo:
déan a bhfuil le déanamh agat, bí gaoismhear, gearr na fíniúnacha
is déan dearmad ar dhóchas. Tá an t-am ar eite agus sinne ag caint.
Beir ar an am i láthair, ní bhaineann an todhchaí le haon neach beo.


Tu ne quaesieris - scire nefas - quem mihi, quem tibi
finem di dederint, Leuconoe, nec Babylonios
temptaris numeros. Ut melius quicquid erit pati,
seu pluris hiemes, seu tribuit Iuppiter ultimam,
quae nunc oppositis debilitat pumicibus mare
Tyrrhenum. Sapias, vina liques, et spatio brevi
spem longam reseces. Dum loquimur, fugerit invida
aetas: carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero.

Ode I. 11

Leucon, no one’s allowed to know his fate,
Not you, not me: don’t ask, don’t hunt for answers
In tea leaves or palms. Be patient with whatever comes.
This could be our last winter, it could be many
More, pounding the Tuscan Sea on these rocks:
Do what you must, be wise, cut your vines
And forget about hope. Time goes running, even
As we talk. Take the present, the future’s no one’s affair.

~ Horace ~
(The Essential Horace, edited and translated by Burton Raffel)


Muire na mBard: seoladh leabhair