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…
