Almost a Conversation
I have not really, not yet, talked with otter
about his life.
He has so many teeth, he has trouble
with vowels.
Wherefore our understanding
is all body expression —
he swims like the sleekest fish,
he dives and exhales and lifts a trail of bubbles.
Little by little he trusts my eyes
and my curious body sitting on the shore.
Sometimes he comes close.
I admire his whiskers
and his dark fur which I would rather die than wear.
He has no words, still what he tells about his life
is clear.
He does not own a computer.
He imagines the river will last forever.
He does not envy the dry house I live in.
He does not wonder who or what it is that I worship.
He wonders, morning after morning, that the river
is so cold and fresh and alive, and still
I don't jump in.
~ Mary Oliver ~
(Evidence)
Comhrá Nach Mór
Níor labhair mé i gceart fós le Dobharchú
faoi féin agus a shaol.
Tá an oiread sin fiacla aige, bíonn deacrachtaí
aige le gutaí.
Dá réir sin is ar bhonn gothaí agus geáitsí
an tuiscint atá eadrainn –
snámhann sé mar iasc sleamhain,
tumann sé, easanálaíonn, fágann marbhshruth súilíní ina dhiaidh.
De réir a chéile glacann sé le mo shúile ag stánadh air
agus le mo cholainn aisteach is mé im' shuí ar an mbruach.
Uaireanta tagann sé gar dom.
Is aoibhinn liom na féasóga aige
agus an fionnadh dorcha sin nach gcaithfinnse ar ór ná ar airgead.
Níl siolla uaidh, ach is léir cad tá á rá aige
faoin shaol.
Níl ríomhaire aige.
Is dóigh leis go mairfidh an abhainn go brách.
Níl sé in éad leis an teach tirim seo agamsa.
Is cuma sa riach leis cé nó cad atá mar dhia agamsa.
Bíonn iontas air, maidin i ndiaidh maidine, an abhainn
a bheith chomh fuar sin, chomh húr chomh beo, is fós
nach léimfinnse inti.
