2017-08-14

Rásaíocht ar an tSráid



 Tá Chevy seasca naoi agam le trí nócha sé
Cinn sorcóra is Hurst ar an urlár
Ag feitheamh anocht thíos sa chlós páirceála
Lasmuigh den Seven-Eleven ‘tá:
Mise ‘s mo chara Sonny thógamar í ón mbonn
Agus bíonn sé liom ó áit go háit
Is ar son an airgid é is sin a bhfuil ann
Is sin mar ‘bhíonn againne ó lá go lá.

Anocht, anocht tá an stráice i gceart
Is beidh pléascadh ann mar táimse faoi dháir
Tá an samhradh ann, gach ní i gceart
Le haghaidh rásaíocht’ ar an tsráid.

Bíonn an t-aicsean uainn gach uile lá
Is clúdaímidne an stát thoir thuaidh
Nuair a dhúntar an stráic’ ritear iad ar an tsráid
Ó na bóithríní tine is lú


Tá daoine a éiríonn as an rás
Is faigheann siad bás de réir a chéile gach lá
Daoine a dhéanann naoi go dtí a cúig
Roimh dóibh rásaíocht ar an tsráid

Anocht, anocht tá an stráice i gceart
Is beidh pléascadh ann mar táimse faoi dháir
Glaoigh os ard ar fud an domhain, bí ag rásaíocht ar an tsráid.

Do bhuaileas léi fadó ar an stráic’
I gCamaro bhí, leis an mboc ó L.A.
Shéideas an Camaro de mo dhroim is chuaigh mé féin is mo stór i gcéin
Ach féach na roic atá faoi shúile mo ghrá
Is caoineann go gcodlaíonn sí istoích’
Abhaile liom tá an tigh faoi smúit
Osnaíonn sí, Stóirín ‘bhfuil tú ceart go leor,
Ina suí sa phóirse i dtigh a daid
Na brionglóidí aici á ndó
Ag stánadh ar an oíche go deo
Na súile a deir gur fuath leo a bheith beo
Do na stróinséirí uile is d’aingil an luais
I dtír challánach seo na n-óg
Anocht me féin is mo stór, síos, chun na farraige síos
Ár lámha á ní, ó bhó.

An mótarbhealach sé tá geal
As ár mbealach, mister, fág an áit,
An samhradh ann, agus seo ár seal
Le haghaidh rásaíocht’ ar an tsráid.

"Racing In The Street"


I got a sixty-nine Chevy with a 396
Fuelie heads and a Hurst on the floor
She's waiting tonight down in the parking lot
Outside the Seven-Eleven store
Me and my partner Sonny built her straight out of scratch
And he rides with me from town to town
We only run for the money got no strings attached
We shut 'em up and then we shut 'em down

Tonight, tonight the strip's just right
I wanna blow 'em off in my first heat
Summer's here and the time is right
For racing in the street

We take all the action we can meet
And we cover all the north east state
When the strip shuts down we run 'em in the street
From the fire roads to the interstate
Some guys they just give up living
And start dying little by little, piece by piece
Some guys come home from work and wash up
And go racing in the street

Tonight, tonight the strip's just right
I wanna blow 'em all out of their seats
Calling out around the world, we're going racing in the street

I met her on the strip three years ago
In a Camaro with this dude from L.A.
I blew that Camaro off my back and drove that little girl away
But now there's wrinkles around my baby's eyes
And she cries herself to sleep at night
When I come home the house is dark
She sighs "Baby did you make it all right"
She sits on the porch of her daddy's house
But all her pretty dreams are torn
She stares off alone into the night
With the eyes of one who hates for just being born
For all the shut down strangers and hot rod angels
Rumbling through this promised land
Tonight my baby and me we're gonna ride to the sea
And wash these sins off our hands

Tonight tonight the highway's bright
Out of our way mister you best keep
'Cause summer's here and the time is right
For racing in the street

2017-08-13

Domingos José Soares Rebelo (1873-1922)

Fia-Chailleach

Samhlaigh duine de na mná gránna sin
colainn chraptha, gialla tite,
srón chromógach mhíchumtha, fiacla ag gobadh amach,
braoithe fiata dlútha bána,

Dlaoithe fada giobacha suaracha
ag titim thar a guaillí cama,
lámha meata agus méara cranraithe,
míle splanc ag éalú as a dhá súil.

Sceitse den bháirseach lofa é sin
í á léiriú le gualach.
Arsa an duine stuama a d’fheicfeadh í, ‘A leithéid de bhrúid!’

An gnáthdhuine, beireann ar mhaide, gearrann fíor na croise air féin
is ar sé de mhonabhar: “Mo ghraidhin í! Bean téagartha!
Is treise í ná Rí Solamh!’

The Witch

Imagine one of those vile old women
 shrunken body, sunken jaws,
aquiline and ugly nose, jutting teeth,
thick, fierce and white eye-brows,

Long, shaggy and squalid tresses,
crowding over her bent shoulders,
shrunken hands and knotted fingers,
her eyes blaze out a thousand sparks.

This is the sketch of that vile shrew
delineated only in charcoal.
The serious man see her and exclaims “What a beast!”

The common man grabs a stick,
blesses himself and mutters “Hail! Such a tough woman!
More powerful than King Solomon!!!”

Slánú

(Chrom sé a cheann agus thug uaidh a spiorad, Eoin, 19:30)

A cheann cromtha, é ag foghlaim an bháis,
slán á rá aige den uair dheireanach
-    siombail den fhiúntas lonrach –
an Fáidh ardchéimiúil, Dia ina Dhuine.

Chrith an domhan ar a insí suaracha
 an duairceas ina bhrat anuas air,
eirmín ina néal
ó Gheitséamainí go Calvaire

Á! Uafás! Lá na barbarachta!
Muire ag geonaíl
i ndeireadh na feide: ‘Mo chreach!’
An taoiseach céid ag breathnú ar íobairt seo
an anama ghlé agus liúnn a choinsias os ard
‘Dar mo lámh, ní fhéadfadh éinne é a fhulaingt
ach Mac Dé féin.’

Redemption

(And he bowed his head and gave up his spirit. Jn., 19:30)
Head bowed, dying,
he had uttered his last goodbye,
 - a symbol of all that is worthy and radiant -
the eminent Prophet, the Man-God.

The earth shook on its mean hinges
gloom enveloped it like a shroud,
ermine turned to pall
from Gethsemane to Calvary!

Ah! Horror! What a barbaric moment!
Disconsolate, Mary
murmured between sobs: “O me!”
The centurion beheld the host of innocence
sacrificed, and with a hand over his conscience
cried out “Only the Son of God
can suffer so.”

(Almanach de Recreio, Nova Goa, edited by Carmo Caraciolo Coelho, 1893)



An tAinrialaí

Tigh tábhairne ainnis agus diabhal bocht
darbh ainm Tadeu ina shuí sa doras
oíche gheimhridh is é ag machnamh  . . .
cad air? . . .  cá bhfios.

Taobh leis bhí laindéar,
sháigh sé a lámh thanaí  ina phóca,
tharraing amach scian agus d’fhógair
‘Díoltas go deo!’ le fuarchúis an aindiachaí!

Agus chuir sé leis: ‘Obair gan mhaith í obair an bháicéara;
Triallfad ar ghiúistís na cathrach féachaint an gcabhródh sé liom
is cóisteoir a dhéanamh díom;

Mura ndéanfaidh, má dhéanann sé neamhshuim díom,
leis an laindéar agus leis an scian seo
Beidh marú is loisceadh ann anocht is go brách!’
 

The Anarchist

At the door of a miserable tavern
a poor devil named Tadeu
could be seen sitting, one winter night
pondering… who knows what?

By his side he had a lantern,
he thrust his bony hand into his pocket,
pulled out a knife, and “Eternal vengeance”
 he exclaimed with an atheist’s indifference!

Then he added “The work of a baker
is bad; I am going to find out if the municipal magistrate
will help me and make me his coachman;

if he does not, if he disregards me,
with this lantern, with this knife
I will cause fires and death without end!!!”


Almanaque Litterário, 1895. Bastora, Goa, edited by J. do R. Crisólogo Borges, 1894.

2017-08-12

False Markets (Margaí Falsa)

An English translation by Gabriel Rosenstock of Margaí Falsa, a poem by the late Danny Sheehy.

This poem was published in his first volume of poems, Súil Seilge (Coiscéim 2008) and reprinted in Poetry Ireland Review (No. 122). It reveals a philosophy that can only be defined as the native anarchism of the Gael.
 

 False Markets

Never got it. Still don’t get it,
I’ll never get it,
don’t really want to get it;
Footsie, Iseq Overall Index, Dow Jones,
sell off of equities, financial centres,
stock market, shares, stock bonds,
the Irish market down three per cent,
trading, marketing, buying and selling
on the false markets of the world.
How can I get my head around it
when I see no one at all buying or selling,
nothing but spectres in silk suits
tussling and scrambling in a flurry.
How good is the fire and something to chew on.

Don’t know where Wall Street is
Hong Kong or Singapore
but there are places I know well:
Sliabh Bhaile an Chalaidh
and Portach an Fhearainn, An Leacain,
Newcastle, Sheffield, Dagenham of Ford fame
and the Middle East
because that’s where
I’ve always got
my turf and coal for the fire,
a fork and a knife
to deliver food to my mouth,
diesel and petrol
to keep the old jalopy on the road
as I travel from coast to coast.
How good is the fire and something to chew on.

What care I for Wall Street
without a spud or a scallion to its name.
Canary Wharf I heard of – who hasn’t –
where the IRA planted a bomb
splintering the minds of silken spectres.
How good is the fire and something to chew on.

What’s all this fuss about Dow Jones?
why such demand
for these ludicrous markets
not a loaf of bread to be got or a gallon of oil –
it’s all trickery, treachery and fear.
There’s some fairy goings on at work here
it seems to me! All stuck in their power game
by dint of dark magic, deception and gambling
on the folly of life’s damned stock.
It’s all jiggery-pokery, a play on words
as the air burns and the skies –
God’s own children ravished alive.
How good is the fire and something to chew on.

Forget world trade
let’s just live within our means,
give a helping hand to our neighbour in time of need,
Serve the local community and the meitheal.
Buy, sell and exchange as need demands
and bring home the bacon.
We have all we require
for a night’s sleep, health and contentment,
a glowing hearth, warmth . . . food.
How good is the fire and something to chew on.
 =============================

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Contemporary_anarchism

2017-08-11

Jörg Heidenberger

Jörg Heidenberger
fiafraigh
fiafraigh go dtí go dtite an masc:
cé mé
ask
keep asking until the mask falls off:
who am I
ρώτα συνέχεια
μέχρι να πέσει η μάσκα:
ποιος είμαι εγώ

Leagan Gréigise: Sarah Thilykou

2017-08-10

Krishnamurphy agus Ashtavakra

Ainmnigh duine amháin
(seachas tú fein)
a chonaic an solas
arsa na deisceabail, go himpíoch.
Ashtavakra, arsa Krishnamurphy, gan smaoineamh.

Conas is féidir a bheith ar nós Ashtavakra
an cheist atá acu go léir.


Líontar Krishnamurphy le hatrua.
Le bheith cosúil leis siúd, ar sé,
ní mór daoibh a bheith cam –
chomh cam le hadharc reithe!

Cam?
Baineadh siar go mór as na deisceabail.

Tagann sibh anseo le bhur gcolainn fhoirfe
agus sibh ag súil leis an solas?
Le bheith ar nós Ashtavakra
ní mór daoibh a bheith níos caime na corcscriú!

 

Krishnamurphy and Ashtavakra

Name one enlightened person
(apart from yourself)
the disciples ask, pleadingly.
Ashtavakra! says Krishnamurphy, without thinking.

How do we become like Ashtavakra?
The question on everyone’s lips.

Krishnamurphy is filled with compassion.
To be like him, he says,
you must be crooked –
as crooked as a ram’s horn!

Crooked?
The disciples are aghast.

You come here with your perfect bodies
and expect to be enlightened?
To be like Ashtavakra you must be
crookeder than a corkscrew!

2017-08-09

A Ego Basctha ag Krishnamurphy

Tvuíteáil Krishnamurphy a chuid deisceabal:
Tá sé basctha agam!
Smidiriríní, a chairde ionúine!
Faic fágtha!

Fuair na meáin gaoth an fhocail
Is dhein cosán dearg go dtí a dhoras.

An fíor, a Krishnamurphy?
Tá d’ego basctha go hiomlán agat, an bhfuil?

D’fhéach Krishnamurphy orthu go nimhneach:
Nach bhfuil meas ar bith agaibh orm?!
Tugaigí Sri Sri Krishnamurphy-ji orm!
Sea, sea, sea: tá sé basctha agam!
Is d’at a ucht le bród.
 

Krishnamurphy Smashes His Ego

Krishnamurphy tweeted his disciples:
I have smashed it!
Smithereens, my beloved ones!
Nothing left!

The press got wind of it
And beat a path to his door.

Is it true,
Krishnamurphy?
You have completely smashed the ego?

Krishnamurphy looked at them with disgust:
Have you no respect?!
Call me Sri Sri Krishnamurphy-ji!
Yes, yes, yes: I have smashed it!
His chest swelling with pride.

2017-08-08

An pleidhce úd Koslowski arís!

‘Ar mo leabhar!’ arsa Koslowski, ‘blianta fada ó shin, bhuaileas le Huckleberry Finn’.
‘Ach,’ arsa duine éigin, ‘níl ann ach carachtar liteartha!’
‘Mo dhála féin,’ arsa Koslowski.

*****

‘Le cabhair ó mhaide a shiúlann tú anois?’ arsa cara leis agus deargiontas air.
‘Níl tú i gceart in aon chor,’ arsa Koslowski ar ais leis. ‘Ní hé go bhfuilimse ag siúl le cabhair ó mhaide; an maide atá ag siúl – le cabhair uaimse.’

2017-08-07

Krishnamurphy - cúpla dán

Krishnamurphy ar an ragairne

Sin é an t-ochtú pionta IPA ólta agat!
A fhógraíonn deisceabal.
Nach bhfuil eagla ort go mbeadh cloigeann ort
maidin amárach?

Cloigeann, ab ea? Cloigeann?
An é sin atá á theagasc agam?
Níl aon bhaint ag an gcloigeann leis seo.
Baint dá laghad!
Ná bí ag smaoineamh ar an gcloigeann!
 

Krishnamurphy goes on the batter


That’s your eighth pint of pale Indian ale!
Exclaims a disciple.
Aren’t you afraid you’re going to have a head
in the morning?

A head, is it? A head?
Is this what I have been teaching you?
It has nothing at all to do with the head!
Nothing whatsoever!
Stop thinking of the head!
 

Ar Strae agus Aimsithe Arís


Dúirt U.G. Krishnamurti
‘Ná lean mise. Táimse ar strae . . .’
An bhfuil tusa ar strae leis? arsa deisceabal.

Freagraíonn Krishnamurphy:
An Ghaeilge ar Lost and Found Office
Ná Oifig na nEarraí Caillte
Tuigeann tú an méid sin.
Cén fáth nach bhfuil ‘Aimsithe‘ ann?

Nuair a bheidh an freagra ar eolas agat
Tar ar ais chugam
Mar ní thuigimse beag ná mór é.
 

Lost and Found

U.G. Krishnamurti said:
‘Don’t follow me. I’m lost . . .’
Are you lost as well? asks a disciple.

Krishnamurphy replies:
The Irish for a Lost and Found Office
Is Oifig na nEarraí Caillte
Meaning: Office of Lost Things
Why do they not include ‘Found’?

When you find the answer
Let me know
Because it’s a complete mystery to me.
 

Aigne an Mhoncaí


‘Cuireadh an aigne i gcomparáid le moncaí,
Nár cuireadh, a Mháistir?
Guagach de shíor
Ag léim ó chraobh go craobh  . . .’

‘Hoips! Is beag nár thit sé ansin!’
Gáire ó gach éinne.

‘Tá cathú orm! Do cheist?’

‘Conas aigne an mhoncaí a cheansú.’

‘Ceist neamhbhailí.
Níl aon mhoncaithe againn in Éirinn.
An chéad cheist eile?’              

 

Monkey Mind

‘The mind has been compared to a monkey,
Has it not, Master?
Ever restless
Jumping from branch to branch . . .’

‘Ooops! It nearly fell there!’ says Krishnamurphy.
Laughter all round.

‘I’m sorry! Your question?’

‘How to still the monkey mind’.

‘Not a valid question.
No monkeys in Ireland.
Next question?’
 

Tohi Mohi

Bímis ag cantaireacht! arsa K.:
Tohi Mohi, Mohi Tohi
Antar Kaisa
Tusa mise – mise Tusa
Cén difríocht atá eadrainn?
Sin é, dáiríre!
Cad eile atá ann?
Níl i ngach rud eile ach  . . .
Bímis ag cantaireacht!
Tohi Mohi, Mohi Tohi
Antar Kaisa
Tohi Mohi, Mohi Tohi
Antar Kaisa

Tohi Mohi, Mohi Tohi
Antar Kaisa

Tohi Mohi, Mohi Tohi

Tohi Mohi

Let’s chant! says K.:
Tohi Mohi, Mohi Tohi
Antar Kaisa
You are me – I am You
What’s the difference between us?
That’s it, really!
What eile is there?
Everything else is . . .
Let’s chant!
Tohi Mohi, Mohi Tohi
Antar Kaisa
Tohi Mohi, Mohi Tohi
Antar Kaisa

Tohi Mohi, Mohi Tohi
Antar Kaisa
Tohi Mohi, Mohi Tohi
Antar Kaisa

 

2017-08-06

An Fhírinne Lom

après  Hafiz

'An bhféadfainn iasacht d'asal a fháil?'
arsa an chomharsa leis an gCaomhánach

a d'fhreagair: 'Tá cathú orm,
thugas uaim inné ar iasacht é.'

Díreach ansin, thosnaigh an t-asal ag grágaíl
sa scioból. Mheas an chomharsa

gur bréagnaithe a bhí an Caomhánach ag an asal
is ar sé, 'Cad é sin a chloisimse mar sin?'

Arsa an Caomhánach á fhreagairt: 'A chara,
cé a chreideann tú, mise nó an t-asal?'


Rafiq Kathwari

2017-08-05

Lang Jinshan

Lang Jinshan
nuair nach mbíonn ceist ann
ná freagra…
bile
when there are no questions
no answers…
sacred tree
δεν έχει ερωτήσεις
ούτε απαντήσεις…
ιερό δέντρο

Sarah Thilykou a chuir i nGréigis

2017-08-04

Tithe Sinseartha, Goa

(do Nina Caldeira)

An mhuir amháin, an ghrian, na fiolair a thimpeallaíonn
Gach bá ar sciatháin theirmeacha os cionn an róis dheirg
Is na loiteoige bándeirge, spíonta brúite ag an teas bán,
Iadsan amháin a thuigeann i gceart conas a mhaolaíonn sibhse,
Foirgnimh ó thús an tsaoil, an t-am. Cuireann sibh loinnir i móimintí,
Á dtástáil, a scriosadh, á gcomóradh go seasmhach ina dtréimhsí
Nótáilte. Bhreathnaigh sibh ar laethanta iontacha ómra,
Startha ísle, scliúchais; colm ag tuirlingt;
Glúin i ndiaidh glúine; a gcluichí
Á dtaifeadadh, dhá theanga á láimhseáil agaibh chun déileáil
Leis na searbhóntaí; umhlú nó cúirtéis a dhéanamh ar mhaithe
leis na Seanóirí,
Gaolta, cairde dúthrachtacha. Déantar matrarcaí
De chuid acu, bhí an chumhacht i ndán dóibh, a gcuid tostanna
Rúnda, casadh beag á bhaint as polaitíocht teaghlaigh
Nó mac drabhlásach a chosc ar chrúbáil oíche,
Ar chiorrú coil ar uairibh.

Sa tóir ar Chríostaithe is ar spíosraí a thána

Is mar sin a d’eascair siad, dearúdadh ceann acu, deineadh
An ceann eile a shábháil, ag gabháil thar an Veinéis, timpeall Mhurascaill
Na Guine chun daoir a phiocadh suas.  Those were the
days, my friend, We thought they’d never end
Ó thránna leathana, radharc ar bhóithre ag éirí
Scuab sibh isteach go cnoc, go sruthán, nó áit
Ar tháinig tuirse ar chuspóir, ar chumhacht, ar shaint. Is mar sin
A d’fhás na Tithe Móra. Luso nó Indo ag iompú ina stíl
Ghoach, uathúil ó thaobh cumhachta de, insealbhú, a cruthaíodh
Le breithiúnas is saibhreas, stuaim agus préamhachas. Tarraingt fós
Ag an néatacht, an Clós Cúirte gan athrú is an gairdín.
Féach go géar; leag lámh ar threilís fhíneáilte,
Colúin is frámaí fuinneoige faoi mar gur bróidníodh iad.
Staighrí d’adhmad costasach ar chuir dearnana boga snas orthu;
Síleálacha breac le cuimhní is cumha, speabhraídí is creideamh.
In íomhánna a bheireann greim ar an tsúil chun an tsamhlaíocht a chothú . . .

. . . scéalta laistigh de scéalta, miotais, taibhrimh, finscéalta . . .
Portaingéalaigh, Afracaigh, measc is meaitseáil Indiach.
Pósadh, bualadh leathair, an saol is teagmhálacha, féiniúlachtaí
Deartha, eochairinsintí ar nós Skin ina ngnóthaíonn
Afonso Miranda maoin agus clú. Ceannaíonn talamh
Is daoine i mBassein, Goa agus Daman.
Téann a gharmhac le trádáil. Agus é glan ar meisce, éigníonn
An leaid daor, banphrionsa treibhe. Gan fhios, maraíonn sé
A bpáiste, Perpetua, le teann cruálachta.
Pósadh déanach, éagumas ainsealach, mar phionós
B’fhéidir, tréigeann sé Maria Miranda Flores, spéirbhean
Nótáilte, maighdean. Faobhar curtha ar a ceathrúna ag capall
Is stíoróip, a gabhal ar leathadh le fonn chun plibe. Uaigneach.
Dúilmhear. Tuigeann sé. Is cuma léi faoi ionadaithe mealltacha.
Arraing thar fóir, an mhóimint lom sin, gabhann súile glasa sagartúla
Inti is athnochtann mar shine aonair Ghor-gor. Draíocht
Ghéiniteach. B’fhéidir go seachadann géinte cuimhní cine chomh maith.
Níos mó ná bríce is moirtéal, mórthaibhse, solas
An lae, réaltaí istoíche, gnáth-ghiúmar is giúmar ríoga,
Comhchuimhne is ea sibh ar theaghlach, ar fhine, ar cheast;
Achoimre náisiúnta; súil ar an diaspóra. Sibhse go deimhin
Dialachtaic áite, ama, luaile; ciúnas glan; foirm
Is dath; meas ar chéimseata ach an saor-shreabhadh á cheapadh,
Ligean don spiorad príomhúil a ailtireacht féin a shocrú.
Siúlaimid. Braithimid do chuisle a dhéanann traidisiúin a mheabhrú
Dúinn is a athbheochan, fréamhacha, cá seasaimid, ár n-ullmhú chun
Weltschmerz a fhulaingt, fiabhrais idirnáisiúnta, tubaistí. Socracht, stuaim:
Mar is eol daoibh buanna lonracha is cúinní dorcha; titim
Is aiséirí. Saint, paisean; laigí teicteonacha.
Leigheas is ea sibh le bhur suáilcí glana réamh-charrac; móimintí
Léargais. Gach úrchluiche solais is dathanna, radharc éigin nua
Ar an domhan, cuirimse beagán leis an teanga
Sinne á dtabhairt chugaibhse, chuig compánaigh agus isteach ionainn féin.

Gloria in excelsis.
 

Edwin Thumboo
Samhain/ Nollaig 2014
Singeapór/Goa      



Ancestral Houses, Goa

(for Nina Caldeira)
 

Only the sea, the sun, the eagles circling
Each bay on thermal-wings above red rose
And pink lotus bruised listless by white heat,
Truly know how you, immemorial edifices,
Mitigate time. You burnish, endure, test,
Delete or memorialise moments into notable
Epochs. You watched brilliant amber days,
Low histories, skirmishes; a dove descend;
How generation beget generation; log them
At play, intoning two languages to manage
Menials; bow or curtsey to impress Elders,
Relatives, earnest friends. Some become
Matriarchs, pre-destined to power, keeping
Secret silences, tweaking family politics or
Caging a randy, hot and spicy son from
Prowling nubile nights, some incestuous.

I come in search of Christians and spices

They grew therefrom, forgot one, harvested
The other, bypassing Venice, curved the Gulf
Of Guinea picking up slaves. Those were the
days, my friend, We thought they’d never end
From broad beaches, vantage of rising roads
You swept deep inland to hill, stream, or where
Purpose, power, greed turned weary. Thus grew
Great Houses. Luso or Indo merging into a Goan
Style, unique in power, investiture, called forth
By taste and wealth, tact and rootedness. Neat,
Timelessness Courtyard and garden still pull.
Look close; touch perhaps. Delicate trellises,
Pillars and window frames as if embroidered.
Staircases of fine wood polished by soft palms;
Ceilings depicting nostalgia, fancy and faith.
In images that grip eye to feed imagination….

..stories within stories, myths, dreams, legends…

Of Portuguese, African, Indian mix and match.
Marriage, rutting loins, life and contacts, design
Identities, lead narratives such as Skin. There
Afonso Miranda makes fortune, fame. Buys
Earth and people in Bassein, Goa and Daman.
Moves grandson into trade. When drunk, the lad
Rapes a slave, a princess of her tribe. Unbeknown,
He kills Perpetua - their child - by his cruelty.
A late marriage, chronic impotence, punishment
Perhaps, leaves Maria Miranda Flores, a great
Beauty, intact. Honed by horse and stirrup, her thighs
Wait endlessly to grip his flanks. Lonely. Hungry. He
Knows. She ignores tempting surrogates. In helpless
Ache and agony, that bare moment, green priestly eyes
Enter her to reappear, like Gor-gor’s single nipple. Gene
Magic. Perhaps they transmit racial memories as well.

Beyond brick and mortar, great appearances light
Of day, nightly stars, ordinary and the regal moods,
You are collective memory of family, clan, caste;
National summation; watched its diaspora. You embody
Dialectics of place, time, motion; pure stillness; form
And colour, respecting geometry yet invent free flow,
Letting the primal spirit settle its own architecture.
We walk. We feel your pulse recall, revive traditions,
Roots and bearings, readying us to digest global angst,
International fevers, misadventures. Steadiness, sanity:
For you know gifts of radiance and dark corners; fall
And resurrection. Greed, passion; tectonic frailties.
You cure, purify with pre-carrack virtues; moments
Of epiphany. Each fresh play of light and colour, some
New angle to view the world, I add a little to the language
Bringing us to you, to companions, and into our selves.

Gloria in excelsis.

Edwin Thumboo
Nov/Dec 2014
Singapore/Goa

Féach freisin: A Poem Never Ends…

2017-08-03

An Meisias

Bhí fhios aige
nach dtiocfadh sé go deo

mar sin féin, scaip sé ráflaí faoina theacht
chun go mbeadh dóchas ann.

Sudhannsu Firdaus


2017-08-02

Gorm Dorcha


Rugadh mé chun bualadh leis an spéir
chun tumadh in airde sna néalta
m’ainm a fhógairt os ard san fhirmimint
an trócaire ina liú ar an ngaoth.
Bhíos mór le stoirmeacha toirní
is thugas guth do na geiceonna.
Sheasas gan gíocs asam ar feadh meandair
is deineadh díom an crann is ársa sa chruinne.
Thumas i dteannta na bpéisteanna talún
is shásaíos mo ghoile le cré.
Thug an Domhan é sin go léir agus tuilleadh
thar n-ais dom.
Níl ach aon ní amháin eile le déanamh agam
agus is é sin
dul ar ais arís san aigéan.  

Jessica Faleiro

Deep Blue

I was born to meet the sky
to dive upwards into clouds
to shout out my name from above
and howl mercy into the winds.
I befriended thunderstorms
and lent my voice to geckos.
I stood still for a moment
and became the world’s oldest tree.
I dove in with the earthworms
and sated my appetite on dirt.
The Earth gave me all of this back
and more.
I only have one more thing to do
and that is
to sink back into the ocean.

Jessica Faleiro


2017-08-01

Newton

cén torann a dhéanann
úll ag titim?
masc mairbh Newton
what is the sound
of an apple falling?
Newton's death mask

2017-07-31

Iníonacha an Éithigh

Is séimh iad ár gcuid nósanna
ach tá an tíogar ionainn.
Más mín í ár dteanga
tá oighear inár gcuid féitheacha:

stróicfimis an croí amach as an namhaid
mar a bhrisfí arán
nó dos leitíse a tharraingt.

Níl aithne ag éinne orainn,
iníonacha an éithigh.

I gcás chnámh spairne,
dhéanfadh an móinteán leaba dúinn
chomh maith le tocht ceadaithe ar bith.

Léirímid trócaire do chách
Is níl trua againn d’éinne.

Cé go luíonn siad linne
Agus go gcuimlíonn an craiceann caorach,
Ní fheiceann siad riamh an mac tíre.

San aigne agus sa chroí
atá na starrfhiacla agus an crobh,
ní spáráiltear éinne.

Súile an phocaire gaoithe atá againn
gaol againn leis an bhfiántas fliuch.

Tar, tá an féasta leata romhat.
Cothaigh tú féin orm

Ní bhlaisfidh tú go deo de m’fhírinne.

Tanya Mendonsa

 

The Daughters of the Lie

Our ways are mild
but we have tigers in the blood.
We speak them smooth
but ice runs in our veins:

we would tear the heart out of an enemy
as easily as we would break bread
or pull a lettuce.

Nobody knows us,
the daughters of the lie.

At a sticking point,
the heath is as good a bed for us
as any sanctioned mattress.

With mercy to all
we have pity for none.

Although they lie with us
and stroke the sheepskin,
they never see the wolf.

The fangs and claws
are in the mind and heart,
and nobody is spared.

We have kestrel's eyes
and our kin are the wildness and the wet.

Come, the feast is spread.
You can sate yourself on me

and never taste my truth.

Tanya Mendonsa

2017-07-30

Paidir de chuid an Ghúrú Nanak


ਤੂ ਠਾਕੁਰੁ ਤੁਮ ਪਹਿ ਅਰਦਾਸਿ ॥
तू ठाकुरु तुम पहि अरदासि ॥

Ŧū ṯẖākur ṯum pėh arḏās.

Tusa ár dTiarna is ár Máistir,
Duitse a ofrálaimse an phaidir seo.

ਜੀਉ ਪਿੰਡੁ ਸਭੁ ਤੇਰੀ ਰਾਸਿ ॥
जीउ पिंडु सभु तेरी रासि ॥

Jī▫o pind sabẖ ṯerī rās.

Is Leatsa an cholainn seo,
is Leatsa an t-anam seo.

ਤੁਮ ਮਾਤ ਪਿਤਾ ਹਮ ਬਾਰਿਕ ਤੇਰੇ ॥
तुम मात पिता हम बारिक तेरे ॥

Ŧum māṯ piṯā ham bārik ṯere.

Is Tusa ár máthair is ár n-athair,
sinne Do pháistí.

ਤੁਮਰੀ ਕ੍ਰਿਪਾ ਮਹਿ ਸੂਖ ਘਨੇਰੇ ॥
तुमरी क्रिपा महि सूख घनेरे ॥

Ŧumrī kirpā mėh sūkẖ gẖanere.

A liacht sin cúis áthais i Do Ghrásta!

ਕੋਇ ਨ ਜਾਨੈ ਤੁਮਰਾ ਅੰਤੁ ॥
कोइ न जानै तुमरा अंतु ॥

Ko▫e na jānai ṯumrā anṯ.

Níl léamh ag éinne ar D’fhairsinge.

ਊਚੇ ਤੇ ਊਚਾ ਭਗਵੰਤ ॥
ऊचे ते ऊचा भगवंत ॥

Ūcẖe ṯe ūcẖā bẖagvanṯ.

Is Tú an Té is Airde,
a Dhia na Féile.

ਸਗਲ ਸਮਗ੍ਰੀ ਤੁਮਰੈ ਸੂਤ੍ਰਿ ਧਾਰੀ ॥
सगल समग्री तुमरै सूत्रि धारी ॥

Sagal samagrī ṯumrai suṯir ḏẖārī.

Crochta ó do Shnáthsa atá an uile ní

ਤੁਮ ਤੇ ਹੋਇ ਸੁ ਆਗਿਆਕਾਰੀ ॥
तुम ते होइ सु आगिआकारी ॥

Ŧum ṯe ho▫e so āgi▫ākārī.

Faoi Do Cheannasaíocht atá an uile ní
a d’eascair Uait

ਤੁਮਰੀ ਗਤਿ ਮਿਤਿ ਤੁਮ ਹੀ ਜਾਨੀ ॥
तुमरी गति मिति तुम ही जानी ॥

Ŧumrī gaṯ miṯ ṯum hī jānī.

Tusa amháin a thuigeann
Do staid féin agus Do mhéid

ਨਾਨਕ ਦਾਸ ਸਦਾ ਕੁਰਬਾਨੀ ॥੮॥੪॥
नानक दास सदा कुरबानी ॥८॥४॥

Nānak ḏās saḏā kurbānī. ||8||4||

Beidh Nanak, Do dhaor,
ina íobairt Duit go deo

2017-07-29

Cérbh í?

Cérbh í, cérbh í
A bhain na geasa de chathair seo na dtaibhreamh
A d'athraigh gach corda de m'anamsa
A thréig mé in ucht an fholúis

Níorbh í an spéir gan taise í
Ná an rúnchara a éisteann lem' bhuairt
Níorbh í mo cholainn bhocht spíonta í
Cérbh í mar sin
Cérbh í?

Shahryar

2017-07-28

Dódh m'athair is mo sheanathair

Dódh m'athair is mo sheanathair

K. Siva Reddy

Dódh m'athair is mo sheanathair
díreach taobh leis an gconair deannaigh seo.
B'fhéidir gur dódh marbháin uile an tsráidbhaile
díreach taobh leis an gconair deannaigh seo.
Nuair a théimid ag siúl ar an gconair deannaigh
tagaimid fós ar photaí briste, seanchiseáin cháite
agus taiséadaí ar an bpailm dhátaí.

Tar éis achair fhada
táimid tagtha
agus ní féidir gan talamh créamtha a iompar ar na guaillí.
Más mian liom an t-ualach a aistriú chuig duine eile
tá talamh créamtha á iompar aige siúd leis -
tá duine á lorg agam nach bhfuil iompaithe ina thalamh créamtha.

They burnt my father and my grandfather

K. Siva Reddy

They burnt my father and my grandfather
just next to this dust track.
Perhaps they burnt all the dead people in the village
just next to this dust track.
When we go along the dust track
we can still find broken pots, old winnowing baskets
and shrouds on the nearby date-palm trees.

Coming this far
after so long
it’s become impossible not to shoulder a cremation ground.
If I wish to shift the burden on to another
he too is shouldering a cremation ground –
I am searching for one who hasn’t turned into a cremation ground.

© 2002, K. Siva Reddy
From: Antarjanam
Publisher: Jhari Poetry Circle, Hyderabad, 2002


© Translation: 2005, M. Sridhar and Alladi Uma
From: Mohana! Oh Mohana! and Other Poems
Publisher: Sahitya Akademi, New Delhi, 2005, ISBN 81-260-2162

2017-07-27

Masao Yamamoto

Masao Yamamoto
Fuji-san
há-há-há-há-há!
ní den saol seo é
Fuji-san
ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!
it is not of this world
το όρος Φούτζι
χα-χα-χα-χα-χα!
δεν είναι αυτού του κόσμου

Sarah Thilykou a chuir i nGréigis

2017-07-26

Graifití an Lae


Más dóigh leat go bhfuil an Chruinne seo go dona, ba cheart duit cuid de na cinn eile a fheiscint.

Philip K. Dick


The Penultimate Truth About Philip K. Dick: Documentary Explores the Mysterious Universe of PKD

Even readers not particularly well versed in science fiction know Philip K. Dick as the author of the stories that would become such cinematic visions of a troubled future as Blade Runner, Total Recall, Minority Report , and A Scanner Darkly.

2017-07-25

SPRINGSTEEN - An Tír Tairngire

Ar luasraon nathrach i ngaineamhlach Utah
Piocaim suas m’airgead is ar ais liom arís
Tiomáint liom thar Waynesboro, fógra glas,
Tá an raidió ar siúl, an t-am ag dul as
Garáiste dhaid, mé ag obair go dian
Tóir ar bhrionglóidí, ag tiomáint istoích’
Is gearr go mbeadsa féin i gceannas, a mhian.

Tá glam ó ghadhair na sráid’
Már dóibh siúd is léir
Dá bhféadfainnse nóiméad a choinneáil im’ lámh
Mister, ní garsún mé, táimse i m’fhear
Tír tairngire atá uaim go géar

Dheineas mo chion le bheith mar atáim
Éirímse gach aon mhaidin, ag sclábhaíocht gach lá,
Ach dalltar an tsúil is fuaraíonn an fhuil
Uaireanta bím chomh lag go bpléascfainn le fonn goil
Phléascfainn is an baile seo a lot
Scian im ghlac, an phian á stróiceadh ó m’ucht
’Bhfuil duine ar bith ann mar táimse anocht?


Tá glam ó ghadhair na sráid’
Már dóibh siúd is léir
Dá bhféadfainnse nóiméad a choinneáil im’ lámh
Mister, ní garsún mé, táimse i m’fhear
Tír tairngire atá uaim go géar

               ~     ~      ~
Bhuel tá néal dubh ag éirí ón ngaineamh aníos
Phacálas cás is tá m’aghaidh caol díreach ar an stoirm
Tornádó a bheidh ann is beidh gach rud ar lár
Nach seasfaidh an fód go teann más gá
Scaipfear an aisling a dhein tú a chloí
Scaipfear an aisling a bhris do chroí
Scaipfear na bréaga a d’fhág caillte thú, gan aon ní is bristechroíoch.

Tá glam ó ghadhair na sráid’
Már dóibh siúd is léir
Dá bhféadfainnse nóiméad a choinneáil im’ lámh
Mister, ní garsún mé, táimse i m’fhear
Tír tairngire atá uaim go géar
Tír tairngire atá uaim go géar
Tír tairngire atá uaim go géar
 


Bruce Springsteen

The Promised Land

On a rattlesnake speedway in the Utah desert
I pick up my money and head back into town
Driving cross the Waynesboro county line
I got the radio on and I'm just killing time
Working all day in my daddy's garage
Driving all night chasing some mirage
Pretty soon little girl I'm gonna take charge

The dogs on Main Street howl
'cause they understand
If I could take one moment into my hands
Mister I ain't a boy, no I'm a man
And I believe in a promised land

I've done my best to live the right way
I get up every morning and go to work each day
But your eyes go blind and your blood runs cold
Sometimes I feel so weak I just want to explode
Explode and tear this whole town apart
Take a knife and cut this pain from my heart
Find somebody itching for something to start

The dogs on Main Street howl
'cause they understand
If I could reach one moment into my hands
Mister I ain't a boy, no I'm a man
And I believe in a promised land

Hmm
Hmmm
Hmmmm

Well there's a dark cloud rising from the desert floor
I packed my bags and I'm heading straight into the storm
Gonna be a twister to blow everything down
That ain't got the faith to stand its ground
Blow away the dreams that tear you apart
Blow away the dreams that break your heart
Blow away the lies that leave you nothing but lost and brokenhearted

Well the dogs on Main Street howl
'cause they understand
If I could take one moment into my hands
Mister I ain't a boy, no I'm a man
And I believe in a promised land
And I believe in a promised land
And I believe in a promised land

2017-07-24

Liam Ó Duibhir

Liam Ó Duibhir, RIP
Ba é Liam Ó Duibhir a bhí ina mhúinteoir Gaeilge againn
i gColáiste Charraig an Tobair

Is cuimhin liom lá
gur ardaigh sé mo chóipleabhar:
Gaelge scríofa agamsa air faoi 'Ábhar'
seachas Gaeilge

Thug sé súil nimhneach orm -
Duine nach raibh in ann an focal Gaeilge féin a litriú!

Deirtear go bhfuil leigheas
sa nimh (beagán di)
Leigheasadh mé.

2017-07-23

Iris Darb Ainm Sargasso

Tá ábhar i mBéarla, Fraincis agus Gearmáinis sa chéad eagrán den iris Sargasso, prós, filíocht, grianghraif agus léaráidí. Ní rabhas ag súil le stápla ach sea, tá Sargasso stápláilte. 


San eagarfhocal spreagúil deirtear go bhfuil ‘spiorad an duine á nimhiú ag an eagla, ag an mbaois agus ag an tsaint’.

Bheadh ar dhuine ar bith – nach bhfuil cónaí air i  bpluais – teacht leis an anailís sin agus fiú má tá corrdhuine thall is abhus agus cónaí orthu i bpluais, an slán dóibh? Tá ailse aigne á leathadh ar fud na bhfud, dar le Sargasso.

Ní haon áibhéil a rá mar sin go bhfuil míshásamh ar eagarthóirí na hirise seo agus ar léitheoirí Sargasso trí chéile, glacaim leis. Má tá tusa breá sásta leis an saol, ní duitse Sargasso.

An bhfuil leigheas acu ar an ailse aigne seo? Tá, gan amhras! Tá siad chun seasamh suas. Tá siad chun troid i gcoinne mheath seo na sibhialtachta agus phríosúnacht an anama. Is foghlaithe mara tarchéimnitheacha iad, a fhógraítear san eagarfhocal, agus is trí smaointe beannaithe a mhalartú a chuirfear an résistance seo i gcrích. Smaointe beannaithe, sea. Féach air sin!

Ní dóigh liom féin go gcreideann mórán daoine in Éirinn go bhfuil na healaíona in ann rud ar bith a athrú ach fógraíonn na Saragassóirí go bhfuil cumhacht ag an bhfocal, ag an íomhá, ag an bhfilíocht agus feidhmeoidh an iris acu ina peinicillin a mharóidh víreas na sainte.

An éireoidh leo? Cur chuige traschultúrtha idirnáisiúnta atá acu, rud atá le moladh. Duine de na heagarthóirí, M.A. Littler, tá seisean bainteach leis an gcomhlacht scannánaíochta Slowboat Films a bheidh ag scannánú in Éirinn amach anseo:

Cé hiad na daoine seo mar sin? An ainrialaithe iad?  Ar shlí is ea, is dócha, agus ní locht ar bith é sin orthu ach a mhalairt. Le hanord tagann deis chun athruithe a dhéanamh, athruithe a shamhlú. Ord éigin a shamhlú nach ord é atá ag teacht anuas chugainn mar orduithe ach an t-ord sin a shamhlaímid sa chroí nach bhfuil ailse air.

Braithim go bhfuil an art brut mar fhoinse inspioráide acu, is é sin le rá na healaíona sin atá ar an imeall, lasmuigh de na paraiméadair oifigiúla.
 
Domhan atá Díolta an teideal atá ar dhán le M.A. Littler, a fheictear anseo ar dheis i dteannta a chomheagarthóra D.H. Ottn.



Domhan atá Díolta
Olagón na gaoithe
   Pus ar an lucht linseála
I ndomhan atá díolta

   Níl faic le cailliúint
Mura bhfuil faic le buachan
   I ndomhan atá díolta

Socraíonn seanóirí
   Cá n-éagfaidh na fir óga
I ndomhan atá díolta


    Snaga breaca is daoine
Meallta ag nithe lonracha
    I ndomhan atá díolta

    Coróin spíona
Agus spéir chraorag
    I ndomhan atá díolta

        Corrán gealaí
Agus miodóg
   I ndomhan atá díolta


   Réalta Dháiví
    Agus siúl tuisleach meisceora
I ndomhan atá díolta

      Cá bhfuil an phictiúrlann?
Cé atá mar uiséir?
    Cé a phuinseálann an ticéad?

      Is eol dúinn an teideal:
“Domhan atá díolta”



2017-07-22

Mantra (Ocht nUaire is Céad) a Dhíbreoidh Fuinneamh Diúltach



Om Mahadevaya Vidmahe Rudramurtaye Dhimahi
Tannah Shivah Prachodayat॥

ॐ महादेवाय विद्महे रुद्रमूर्तये धीमहि
तन्नः शिवः प्रचोदयात्॥

Om, lig dom machnamh ar an Tiarna mór,
Ó, a Dhia uilechumhachtaigh, bronn ardintleacht orm,
Is go soilse Síve m'aigne

2017-07-19

Roberto Kusterle

Roberto Kusterle
níl siad ar eolas
ag éinne níos mó . . .
paidreacha ar son báistí
nobody knows them
any more . . .
prayers for rain

RÉALTNEACH: TIONSCADAL DAVID BOWIE - IN BELFAST - CÉADAOIN 26 IÚIL | WED. 26TH JULY

SSMR 2017 | CÉADAOIN 26 IÚIL | WED. 26TH JULY
Áras Mhic Reachtain, 283 - 289 Antrim Road, Belfast

RÉALTNEACH: TIONSCADAL DAVID BOWIE
STARMAN: THE DAVID BOWIE PROJECT
DOIRSE 8:30IN | DOORS 8:30PM


Suíocháin gan cur in áirithe | Unreserved seating

'Táimid ann sa mhóimint dhraíochtach seo
Sin é an stuif as a bhfitear brionglóidí...'

É féin a athchruthú de shíor, ba é sin misean is stampa David Bowie. I measc na bpearsan stáitse a chruthaigh sé bhí Ziggy Stardust - ba da stuif na réaltaí riamh é - agus Aladdin Sane. Chuimsigh a chuid stíleanna ceoil sól plaisteach na Young Americans; ceol draíochta na n-uirlisí ag Low; pop glan Let's Dance agus an léim sa doirchadas a bhí san albam deireanach dá chuid, Blackstar.

Leaganacha Gaeilge atá againn in RÉALTNEACH den chuid is fearr d'amhráin Bowie, traschruthaithe i nGaeilge ag Gabriel Rosenstock agus á gcur i láthair ag Liam Ó Maonlaí, Hilary Bow agus The Brad Pitt Light Orchestra. Beidh íomhánna á dteilgean ar scáileán ag Margaret Lonergan i gcaitheamh an tseó. Léirithe ag IMRAM Féile Litríochta Gaeilge.

Bígí linn ar aistear chun na réaltaí.

David Bowie was defined by constant reinvention. His stage personas included Ziggy Stardust and Aladdin Sane. His musical styles included the 'plastic soul' of Young Americans; the haunting instrumentals of Low; the pure pop of Let's Dance; and the beguiling experimentation of his final album Blackstar.

STARMAN features Irish language versions of Bowie's very best songs, transcreated by Gabriel Rosenstock, performed by Liam Ó Maonlaí, Hilary Bow and The Brad Pitt Light Orchestra. The show includes screen projections by Margaret Lonergan. Produced by IMRAM Irish Language Literature Festival.

Faigh ticéid ar an nasc thíos| Get tickets on link below:

https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/realtneach-tionscadal-david-bowie-liam-o-maonlai-the-brad-pitt-light-orchestra-tickets-34469733902

Guthán: (028) 90 749688
Ríomhphost: daithi@mhicreachtain.com

2017-07-18

Athrú

Má bhaineann eisint le rud éigin –
Ní iompóidh sé go deo
Ina rud eile.

Ní athraíonn nithe mar sin –
Ní thagann aois ar an óige,
Ní thagann aois ar an aois.

Dá n-athródh rud amháin go rud eile –
Bheadh bainne ina im
Nó ní bainne a bheadh san im.

Dá mbeadh lorg rud éigin ann,
Bheadh lorg an fholúis ann.
Mura mbeadh lorg aon ní ann,
Ní bheadh lorg an fholúis ann.

Is é a deir na Búdaí ná éirí as tuairimí
a bheith agat, sin is folús ann.
Níl leigheas in ann dóibh siúd
A chreideann san fholús.


Nagarjuna

Change

If something has an essence--
How can it ever change
Into anything else?

A thing doesn't change into something else--
Youth does not age,
Age does not age.

If something changed into something else--
Milk would be butter
Or butter would not be milk.

Were there a trace of something,
There would be a trace of emptiness.
Were there no trace of anything,
There would be no trace of emptiness.

Buddhas say emptiness
Is relinquishing opinions.
Believers in emptiness
Are incurable

Nagarjuna


English version by Stephen Batchelor
Original Language Sanskrit
from Verses from the Center: A Buddhist Vision of the Sublime, by Nagarjuna / Translated by Stephen Batchelor

2017-07-17

As an Chauraspanchasika

Fiú anois
Casann an gearrthóir crann is an t-iascaire abhaile,
Ar an tua aige an ghealach agus sa líontán silteach
Tá solas buí na gealaí gafa. Lasair chorcra na tine
Ag glaoch orthu chun suain is chun seirce. Ón mbaile gréine
Gabhann an té a chumann amhráin scáinte ar mhaithe le harán
Ar fán chun luí faoin gcleimeatas lena chailín.
Solas na gealaí ar a cíocha, is ní mór domsa bás a fháil...

Fiú anois
Is cuimhin liom gur gheal liom cufróga is rósanna,
Na sléibhte móra arda is na cnocáin bheaga liatha,
Glór na mara. Faoi sholas an lae ghléigil
Is iomaí súil aisteach a chonacsa agus lámha mar fhéileacáin;
D’eitlídís domsa ar maidin fuiseoga as an tím
Is thagadh páistí chun snámh sna srutháin...

Fiú anois
Is cuimhin liom tús m’aislinge am tite na mbláthanna
Is thiteas-sa sa saol fiáin is i ngrá lem’ bhé;
Ba ansin a doirteadh eisint a háilleachta
Anuas ar mo laethanta a fhanfaidh go deo liom,
Ní raghaidh in éag, fíneáilte agus úr, dhein cumhra
An lá sin is na laethanta a lean is an lá inniu féin...

Bilhana (11ú haois)

http://www.sacred-texts.com/hin/bilhana/bil01.htm

2017-07-16

Roghnaítear Teanga

I

Is neamhgháifeach é an leacht i gcuimhne
ar Phetrarca ag Fontain de Vaucluse agus an sliabh
fós i réim ar na huiscí a ligeann sé dóibh rith
óna bhéal. Meaisíní sliotán ag insint scéal na háite,
an file agus a ghrá buile, i mBéarla, Fraincis agus Gearmáinis.
Roghnaítear teanga, cuirtear an t-airgead isteach
agus sin sin. Breá soiléir, neamhchostasach.

II

Agus mé ocht mbliana d’aois i mBombay
cuireadh aibítir an Bhéarla, A le haghaidh Apple, os mo chomhair.
Mé ag stadaireacht, is ag cogaint almóinní mar leigheas.
Mo theanga ag cur in aghaidh urlabhra, teanga nua
roghnaithe in áit mo theanga féin.
Dheineas aithris i m’aonar ar thuin cainte
saighdiúirí Sasanacha, idir airde agus ton.
B’iadsan na teangacha dom’ bhéal-mhicreafón.

III

Chuir an ghaoth na tithe trína chéile ag
Gordes, ach cén fáth a bhfuil Les Baux chomh sceirdiúil?
Athraíonn an aimsir, nó cúinsí tráchtála:
imíonn daoine áit éigin eile, foghlaimíonn teanga
iasachta chun gairm nua a chleachtadh; teifigh
uile ón ngannchuid. Is turasóir mé i measc na bhfothrach
seo. Treoirleabhar Michelin im’ lámh
léimse faoin domhan so, tuigim fios gach fáth’.

IV

Ar ais ar an mbád, dhá bhruach á cheangal
ag muir gan stát i measc scéilíní
agus biotáille saor ó dhleacht, faic le rá agam
mise nach ndúirt mórán idir Dunkerque agus Marseille.
Siúd thall Sasana, a dtugann m’fhoclóir is m’aineolas
mé ar ais ann. Cúpla léamh filíochta
agus ag an deireadh (chun spéis a léiriú) fiafraítear
cé mhéad teanga Indiach atá agam go líofa.

Zulfikar Ghose


2017-07-15

Dánta Tráthnóna

Tá dánta tráthnóna
ar nós fuinneoga caocha i dtithe folmha
is gan éinne iontu a lasfadh solas go neamhchúiseach
ar a shlí tríd an seomra tosaigh
féachaint an raibh an doras faoi ghlas.
stánann siad sa dorchadas
lampaí sráide á léiriú acu ar phánaí gloine
macallaí ag baint preab astu ina gciúnas féin
ag súil go marbhánta le teacht an dóchais
i gclúdach donn
ina mbeadh glaoch chun agallaimh nó cuireadh chun bainise
is ar a bhfuil seoladh Mr Ker nach gcónaíonn anseo níos mó. 

Lakshmi Arya


Evening Poems

Evening poems are like
blind windows of empty houses
where no-one indifferently turns on a light
while passing through the
front room to check if the door is locked.
they stare in the dark
reflecting street lamps on glass panes
and startle at echoes in their own silences
waiting vacantly for hope to arrive
in brown envelopes
bearing interview calls or wedding invitations
addressed to Mr. Kar who no longer lives here.

http://pratilipi.in/evening-poems-lakshmi-arya/

2017-07-14

Haiku

uch, an lámh!
an lámh a cuireadh ina bhás féin...
Theobald Wolfe Tone
oh, the hand!
the hand that took his own life...
Theobald Wolf Tone

2017-07-13

Guairneán Gaoithe

Tar éis dom folcadh a ghlacadh
chuimlíos mé féin
le cumhracht na ngort glas.
Ligeas fead is láithreach
léim ba isteach
tríd an bhfuinneog,
gile ghrian na maidine
ar a n-adharca;

léim buabhaill isteach,
slim sleamhain
ó uiscí an locha,
bréantas éisc;

léim gabhair isteach,
bhí bóithríní uaigneacha
imill lábacha na mbealaí móra,
páirceanna tréigthe
agus cleití péacóige
ina gcuid súl;

léimeas féin isteach,
guairneán gaoithe ar fud an tí.

Ravji Patel

 

2017-07-12

Lá Amháin, Ar Nós Gregor Samsa

Lá amháin, ar nós Gregor Samsa, ar maidin  .. .
Féach, féach an claochló atá tagtha ar do shaol,
ar an domhan. Á,
ar shíl tú go deo go bhféadfadh sé tarlú,
go dtarlódh sé!
Ar shíl tú riamh go scaoilfí
naisc saoil chomh héasca, chomh simplí sin!

Féach anois chomh héadrom is atá idir chos is lámh,
leáigh na heasnacha is iad chomh bog le cadás,
mar pháipéar caol tanaí iad na matáin,
b'fhuirist iad a stróiceadh.
      Sáigh anois mé
       ní dhoirfí braon fola.

Um thráthnóna, scuabfaidh an glantóir páirtaimseartha
an fheithid mharbh
sa bhosca bruscair.

Nabaneeta Deb Sen

 

 

2017-07-11

Uair an Choráiste

Ar thaobh na láimhe deise dár gcnoc
Tá tobar
ag glioscarnach, ag cur thar maoil.
Chlúdaigh samhradh na bliana anuraidh é
Le bláthanna glasa an mhangó.
Mealladh lao ann
Thit isteach is bádh é.
Ó shin i leith
Níor ól éinne
As an dtobar sin.
Téimse ag snámh ann istoíche
Mar ghadaí.
Cuachaim mo lámha is ólaim
Ach ní mhúchtar an tart
Ní shásaítear an grá.
I nduibheagán an tobair
Tá scáthanna tnúthánacha ag feitheamh
Leis na maighdeana a chroch
Rópa ar an tairne
Ach nár tháinig riamh ar ais ag triall ar uisce.
Bíonn duibheagán an tobair ag súil
Le huair an choráiste
Nuair a shínfidh mo lámha amach
I bhfianaise cách
Chun deoch a ól.

Padma Sachdev

 

2017-07-10

Mo Gháire

Tá mo gháire caillte agam
     N’fheadar cén áit.


Chuireadh mo gháire mé ag doirteadh caife orm féin
Thosnaínn ag sraothartach, seile á spraeáil agam, deora
liom is strainc orm
Dhíríodh mo gháire orm
daoine ag stánadh orm go fiosrach ón slua
Bhí sé tógálach, fiú ar an nguthán
Gan cúis ar bith thagadh sé chugam de ruathar
is mé a bhaint as mo sheasamh
mar a bheadh gaoth ag bogadh os cionn bláthanna féir
nó mhoillíodh go suaimhneach ar nós sholas na gréine
i mí na Nollag ar phánaí fuinneoige.

Conas a chuirfinn síos air?
Coinín i dtor?
Féileacán os comhair scátháin?
Srutháinín ag rith thar phúróga?
Gráinní gainimh ag glioscarnach i ndiaidh tonnáin tráite?
Deilfeanna ag princeam?
Lonrú an arbhair scilte?
Braonta báistí? Réaltaí?

An gorméan a bhí ann?
eascann leictreach?
scornlus?
arietta?
splanc neoin?
páirc feileastram?
criosantamam?
astaróideach?
siorcón?
braon dúigh?
siosarnach páipéir?
script folaigh?

Ar cheil an sneachta é?
Ar bascadh faoi ghluaisteáin ar luas tríd an ngreallach é?
Ar stop comharthaí é?
Ar scanraigh bitseach é is an oíche ina dúiseacht aici?
Ar chuir fia-chailleach i gcás é?
Ar chuir an clog ina thost é?

Cá raghainn sa tóir ar mo gháire caillte
anois nuair atá bodhaire is daille is pairilis
sa mhullach orm?
Níl ionam ach anáil thais
carn cnámh i ngeimhle
gearradh domhain gan fuil
neascóid gan phian
fréamh gan ghas
macalla gan liú

An lá ag dul ó léas is níl na lampaí sráide lasta
abair liom, duine éigin!
An nochtfaidh an chamhaoir é nuair a bháfar an ceo?
An taibhreamh a bhí ann? An bhfuilim im’ dhúiseacht anois?
An foláireamh a bhí ann? An bhfuilim slán anois?
An gealtacht a bhí ann? An slán dom anois?

Dileep Jhaveri

My Laughter

I have lost my laughter
     I do not know where

Laughter used to make coffee spill over my lap
I would start sneezing and spray spit – with tears streaming from screwed up eyes
It used to point at me
quizzical faces from the crowd would stare at me
It was infectious even on the telephone
Without any reason it used to come rushing
and joggle me
like wind moving over grass flowers
Languidly it used to linger
like December sunlight over windowpanes

How can I describe it?
A rabbit in the bush?
A butterfly before a mirror?
A streamlet leaping over pebbles?
Glistening sand grains after a wave ripples away?
Gamboling dolphins?
Corn gleaming beneath shucks?
Raindrops? Stars?

Was it a bluebird?
an electric eel?
a bellflower?
an arietta?
a neon spark?
an iris park?
a chrysanthemum?
an asteroid?
a zircon?
an ink drop?
a rustling paper?
an invisible script?

Did the snow bury it?
Did cars speeding in the slush crush it?
Did signals halt it?
Did the bitch keeping awake the whole night frighten it?
Did a witch encage it?
Did the clock silence it?

Where will I search for my lost laughter,
now when deafness and blindness and paralysis
have piled on me?
I am merely a moist breath
a heap of shackled bones
a laceration without blood
abscess without pain
root without stem
echo without a cry

Daylight is gone and street lamps unlit
tell me, someone!
Will it emerge at dawn after mist drowns at dusk?
Was it a dream? Am I awake now?
Was it a warning? Am I safe now?
Was it madness? Am I cured now?

Dileep Jhaveri [Trans. Bill Wolak]

 

2017-07-09

An Corpán

Tá corp duine éigin ina luí ar an tsráid gan chorraí
timpeallaithe ag daoine.
Cuid acu siúlann thairis, sin uile,
cuid eile nach bhfuil in ann an radharc a sheasamh;
duine eile ar tí stad, duine eile fós ina thost,
duine eile agus dúnann a shúile go docht.

Gabhann duine thairis agus mantraí á n-aithris aige;
cé dó a phioc an páiste seo bláthanna?
Cé a gháir anseo,
cé a shín amach a lámha
chun stop a chur leis an am,
agus ar cailleadh a liúnna
ar an tsráid thréigthe.

Fuadar an tsolais in aghaidh an tsrutha
agus cailleadh duine ar an slí; a liacht sin
brionglóid meilte ina luaithreach.
Osnaíonn duine éigin go trom.
Déanann duine an bheatha a thomhas
le coinneal lasta,
agus duine eile ag déanamh a bhealaigh
sa leathsholas.

Tá na daoine go léir bailithe leo;
an tsráid folamh; gáire múchta
sa spás gan teorainn.
Luíonn an corpán i gcónaí i lár na sráide,
agus mise i mo chodladh go sámh ar oileáinín uaigneach.

J. P. Das

 

 

2017-07-08

Dong Hong-Oai

Dong Hong-Oai
na nóiméid
na soicindí…
ag feitheamh leis na corra
the minutes
the seconds…
waiting for the cranes
λεπτά της ώρας
δευτερόλεπτα…
προσμένοντας γερανούς

Leagan Gréigise: Sarah Thilykou

2017-07-07

Frank Benson

Frank Benson
corra ar eite...
uaigneas an lae inniu
sa duilleog bháite
herons in flight...
today's loneliness
in a water lily
σμήνος ερωδιών...
η μοναξιά σήμερα
σ' ένα νούφαρο

Leagan Gréigise: Sarah Thilykou

2017-07-06

Aubade

Rugadh i gcríochaibh teo sinn gar d'abhainn
Ar dhath sciatháin gealbhain atá fillte faoi dhraoib.

Ar charraig gar don abhainn tá scríofa:
Ordaímse, Priyadarshi, is ansa leis na Déithe, an méid seo

Sa ríocht seo bíodh gach fear, bean, páiste,
Fia, éan, is gach neach beo saor ó dhochar.

Cá mbaileoidh na mairbh le chéile - i bpoill deataigh?
Páláis de scamaill á dtolladh ag cruach?

Phóg tú mo shúile ag breacadh an lae,
Is chuimil tú mo chosa chun go mbuailfinn an ród.

Féara ag síolú cois carraige is lilí faoi bhláth
Agus tá ina thuile - abhainn ceo is ama

Ola tríthi, fuil ar a barr, sciatháin os a cionn,
Dlúth le draoib, teacht abhaile


Meena Alexander

2017-07-04

Smaoineamh an lae

Cad is tírghrá ann? 
“Patriotism, sir, is the last resort of scoundrels,” 
arsa an Dr. Johnson. An frith-thírghráthóir is mó lenár linn féin, Leo Tolstoy, shainmhínigh seisean an tírghrá mar phrionsabal a sheasann le traenáil dúnmharfóirí ar scála mór; ceird a éilíonn trealamh níos fearr chun daoine a mharú ná chun riachtanais na beatha a dhéanamh, bróga cuir i gcás, éadach, agus tithe, ceird a gheallann brabús agus glóir níos mó ná mar a thuillfeadh gnáth-fhear oibre go deo.

Emma Goldman

2017-07-03

Clifford Coffin

Clifford Coffin
a scáil féin -
(fiú ag an bhfíor-iógaí)
ag gach éinne
everyone -
(even a true yogi)
has a shadow

2017-07-02

William Klein

William Klein
sea… sea…
ó sea… sea…
a stóirín bán is a ansacht
yes… yes…
oh yes… yes…
my precious, precious baby

2017-07-01

Don Hong-Oai

Don Hong-Oai
scaraid óna chéile
ach an fíor dáiríre?
corr agus giúis
they part from one another
but is it so?
heron and pine
τα δυο χωρίζουν
αλλά είν' έτσι;
ερωδιός και πεύκο

Leagan Gréigise: Sarah Thilykou

2017-06-30

Frank Benson

Frank Benson
an t-anam
á aithint féin i ngach ní ...
corr bhán
the soul
knowing itself in all things...
white heron
σε όλα μέσα
διακρίνεται η ψυχή...
λευκός ερωδιός

Leagan Gréigise: Sarah Thilykou

2017-06-29

Feitheamh

Agus tú fá shuan,
ar thairseach do chuid brionglóidí,
mé ag feitheamh is ag stánadh go ciúin ar do ghnúis
nuair a nochtann réalt na maidine ar dtús ag d'fhuinneog.
Mar a chéile, cois cladaigh,
an t-aiséiteach tumtha sa mhachnamh,
is é ag stánadh Soir -
a bhigil fhada caite aige in eacstais gan néal,
is é ag súil le breacadh an lae
á fholcadh.

Ólfadsa lem' dhá shúil
an chéad mheangadh
a bhláthóidh ar do liopaí leathoscailte
mar bhachlóg -
a mhian.

Rabindranath Tagore

Awaiting


In your sleep,
At the threshold of your dreams,
I wait and gaze silently on your face
As the morning star first appears at your window.
In the same way, by the seashore,
The ascetic plunged in meditation
Gazes towards the East -
His hours of vigil pass away in sleepless ecstasy,
As he looks forward to his immersion
In the first light of morning.

With mine eyes,
I shall drink the first smile
That blooms on your half-opened lips
Like a flower-bud -
This is my wish.

 Later Poems of Tagore (Orient Paperbacks, New Delhi)

2017-06-28

Diane Arbus

Diane Arbus
an bhrionglóid
cén bhrí a bhí léi…
cén cuspóir
the dream
what did it mean…
what was it for
το ενύπνιο
τι να σήμαινε…
για ποιο πράγμα να ήταν

Sarah Thilykou a dhein an leagan Gréigise

2017-06-27

Ar Mhullach Bhinn Éadair


Gháir tú nuair a bhánaigh na tonnta glasa
Ar charraigeacha i bhfad uait, á rá, “Scaoilfead
Saor mo chuid ribíní chun go gcloisfinn
Toirneach bhog na gaoithe im’ chuid gruaige.”

“Níl sa ghaoth ach bláthfhleasc an tsáile.
An fhuil ag cuisliú ionam – cuthach
Na n-aoiseanna – a chloiseann tú is ní an ghaoth
Mar thoirneach bhog i do chuid gruaige."
 

Baile Átha Cliath, 1966

Hubert Ribeiro Santana (de bhunadh Goa)


On Howth Head


Laughing to see the green waves pale
On far rocks, you said, “I will pull
Loose my ribbons, that I may hear
The wind’s soft thunder in my hair.”

“The wind is but the water’s wreath.
It is my beating blood – the wrath
Of ages – and not the wind you hear
Makes that soft thunder in your hair.”

Dublin, 1966

Hubert Ribeiro Santana