Graifítí an Lae: Joe Hill

Ní léitear paimfléad ach uair amháin ach cuirtear amhrán de ghlanmheabhair agus cantar arís is arís eile é.

Joe Hill (1879 -1915)

Graifítí an Lae: Arundhati Roy

An t-aon ní is fiú domhandú a dhéanamh air ná an t-easaontas

Arundhati Roy

Graifítí an Lae: Ambrose Bierce

Is é is cogadh ann ná an bealach atá ag Dia chun tíreolaíocht a mhúineadh do Mheiriceánaigh.

Ambrose Bierce (1842 -1913)

Graifítí an Lae

Go dtí go mbeidh a gcuid staraithe féin ag na leoin, mórfaidh scéalta seilge na sealgairí i gcónaí.

Seanfhocal Afracach

Graifítí an Lae: Abie Hoffmann

Creidimse sa chanablacht éigeantach. Dá mb'éigean do dhaoine an rud a mharaíodar a ithe, bheadh deireadh le cogaí.

Abbie Hoffman (1936 -1989)

Árfort na Sionnaine

Poet-translator Gabriel Rosenstock supports the use of the word 'warport' by Galway Alliance Against War in relation to the use of Shannon Airport for transport of troops and so-called rendition. "I've been wondering," he says, "what we should call it in Irish. The answer is obvious. Árfort. Ár is an ancient Irish word. One hears it in the phrase, 'Gol na mban san ár', the weeping of women on the bloody battlefield. Ár is misery, slaughter, destruction. I look forward to the day when we can call it Aerfort again. Until that day, let it be called what it is, ÁRFORT."

Graifítí an Lae: George Sand

Gairm an ealaíontóra ná solas a sheoladh isteach i gcroí an duine.

George Sand

Haiku le Issa ón mbliain 1803

nach aisteach!
solas na gealaí
tríd an bhflichshneachta

      .けしからぬ月夜となりしみぞれ哉

    keshikaranu tsuki yo to narishi mizore kana

An rud is annamh is iontach!

Graifítí an Lae: Sylvain Maréchal

Deireadh le húinéireacht aonair talún! Ní le héinne é an domhan seo.

Sylvain Maréchal (1750 - 1803)

Photo-Haiga

Íomhá Ron Rosenstock

folamh ag feitheamh leis an ngealaigh fail cloch

empty waiting for the moon stone enclosure

LITIR DHOMHANDA LE hAGHAIGH MHUIR CHULTÚR

LITIR DHOMHANDA LE hAGHAIGH MHUIR CHULTÚR

CARTA MUNDIAL POR UN MAR DE CULTURAS

CARTE MONDIAL POUR UNE MER DE CULTURES

Desde todos los lugares del mundo queremos expresar como escritores, artistas, creadores y autores de la cultura, nuestro rechazo a las perforaciones petrolíferas en aguas del Archipiélago Canario, considerando que el mar es un espacio para el encuentro de culturas y la relación esencial con la naturaleza a lo largo de la historia.

¡No a las petroleras, por un mar de culturas!

Mar scríbhneoirí, mar ealaíontóirí agus mar údair chruthaitheacha as gach cearn den domhan, is mian linn cur in aghaidh dhruileáil ola i bhfarraigí an oileánra Chanáraigh mar is dóigh linn gur comhionad is ea an mhuir le haghaidh teacht le chéile cultúrtha chomh maith le nasc ríthabhachtach dobhriste leis an dúlra i gcaitheamh na staire.

In aghaidh na gcomhlachtaí ola, ar son mhuir na gcultúr!

De touts les endroits du monde on veut exprimer -comme d'ècrivains, artistes, créateurs et auteurs- notre refus aux perforations pétrolifères sur les eaux de l'archipel canarien, parce qu'on considère que la mer est une espace pour les rencontres des cultures en plus qu'une relation essentielle avec la nature au long de l'histoire.

Pas de pétrolieres, pour une mer de cultures!

Nombre / Ainm / Nom: Gabriel Rosenstock
País / Tír / Pays: Éire
Ámbito cultural / Réimse cultúir / Milieu culturel: Litríocht


REENVIAR LA CARTA A /SEOL AR AGHAIDH CHUIG / RENVOYER CETTE LETTRE À:
lasartesylasletras@gmail.com



MUCHAS GRACIAS / GURA MÍLE / MERCI BEAUCOUP

Graifítí an Lae: Fanny Wright

Na praeitseálaithe atá fostaithe ag gach seict, gach creideamh is gach reiligiún, ní mhúineann siad aon ní riamh ach an rud atá ag teacht le tuairimí lucht a n-íoctha.

Francis ('Fanny') Wright (1795-1852)

Shunga: an nochtapas

Taispeántas Shunga ar siúl i Músaem na Breataine go dtí mí Eanáir seo chugainn, pléisiúir na colainne in ealaín na Seapáine agus leabhar sa traidisiún sin The Naked Octopus, nó an nochtapas mar a thugaimse air, le foilsiú go luath ag Evertype. 'Tentacle erotica' an téama oifigiúil ar an seánra áirithe seo, earótachas braiteoige a thabharfaí air sa Ghaeilge, is dócha. Deirtear go raibh sé á chleachtadh fadó ar Inis Mhic Aoibhleáin.

haiku aon líne

Íomhá Richard Gilbert

Léiríonn Dimitar Anakiev, a rugadh i mBéalgrád (1960) agus a bhfuil cónaí air sa tSlóivéin, cé chomh héifeachtach is atá an haiku aon líne:

ar dhá thaobh an fháil is ionann fás na gcaisearbhán

sa obe strane ograde maslacci jednako rastu

Graifítí an Lae: Jacques Roux

Caithfidh an réabhlóid a bheith foréigneach, is é an t-aon slí é chun deireadh a chur le foréigean níos mó ná é, an foréigean sin a choinníonn an chuid is mó den chine daonna i mbraighdeanas.

An tAthair Jacques Roux (1752 -1794)

Photo Haiga

Íomhá Ron Rosenstock

scaipeann an ceo Luch-Oileán, leis, á nochtadh faoi sholas na maidine

mist scatters and Mouse Island, too, emerges in morning light

The Melancholic Woman Speaks of the Fairies

by Cathal Ó Searcaigh

Original Title:
 Bean a bhfuil an Galar Dubhach Uirthi ag Caint ar na Sióga

In the terrible mountainy loneliness
between Mín na nGall
and Mín na Craoibhe
over from the pathway to the bog
all the way up Malaidh Dhubh
as far as the waters known as Loch na Cuiscrí
there’s a forbidden place where airy gentry reside
in all their finery.

But since they have lost their sway
in territories above ground
they have gone from the sight of men
live out their eternal days in obscurity
between two shades of light
in hideaways
and nooks among whispering lakelets.

And sometimes a fairy blast
will come along and, skipping over its head,
carry with it tufts of heather
down from that yellowing place that leads to Fána Buí
and the excitable fairy folk make a headlong dash
straight out of their enchanted fort:
God bless me now and save me for ever
and let them not sweep me away.

In this hollow where I live
Between Mín na nGall and Mín na Craoibhe
All the townlands are blighted, each one,
enclosed fields break out in a rash
trees cough a choking sound
stone walls creak with arthritis
houses have lost their memory.

Last night as I walked in darkness
in search of some comfort along the way
I lost my bearings
having trodden on the sod of confusion
between Mín na nGall and Mín na Craoibhe.
I immediately put my coat on back to front
and when I got to Loch na Cuiscrí
I refused mouth-watering food
from a radiant young man.

©The original poem in Aimsir Ársa (Arlen House 2013)

Indo-Irish Haiku Fest

Graifítí an Lae: Gerrard Winstanley

Ar cruthaíodh an domhan chun go mbeadh saol faoi shó ag dornán daoine santacha uaibhreacha ...?

Gerrard Winstanley (1609 -1676)

Graifití an Lae: François Villon

Foinse: Wikimedia

Táim báite i bhfiacha; níl cianóg rua agam; tugaim an chuid eile do na boicht.

François Villon (c.1431 -c.1463)

Cogadh Domhanda (an haiku deireanach)

Bhíos á rá leis an scríbhneoir Seán Mac Mathúna dá n-ionsódh Meiriceá an tSiria agus dá dtarraingeofaí an tSín agus an Rúis isteach sa scéal, go bhféadfadh Cogadh Domhanda a bheith ann. Bheadh sé in am an haiku deireanach a scríobh ansin, ar sé. Seo é mar sin:

néal muisiriúnach -
gob an phréacháin
ar leathadh

Tor Aisteach/Strange Fruit (Billie Holiday)

Tor Aisteach

Ait an tor ar na crainn ó dheas,
Fuil ar dhuilleoga, an fhuil faoin teas,
Corpáin ghorma ag luascadh sa ghaoth
Aisteach an tor, ó nach aisteach é.

An saol ó dheas, ó nach é 'tá méith
Súile ag at agus caime an bhéil,
Cumhracht mhagnóilia, úr isló
Is boladh tobann duine á dhó

Tor é seo don phréachán dubh
Cnuasaíodh an bháisteach é is an ghaoth inniu,
Á lobhadh faoin ngrian, síos leis sa mhoirt
Tor an-aisteach, tor an-ghoirt.

Strange Fruit  (Billie Holiday)

Southern trees bear a strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.

Pastoral scene of the gallant south,
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,
Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.

Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,
Here is a strange and bitter crop.

Graifítí an Lae: Raifteirí

I nGaillimh atá mo chónaí,
In Uarán Mór atá mo theach;
Amach romham a dhéanaim múnadh,
Siar fúm a dhéanaim cac.

Antaine Raifteirí (1784 -1835)

Graifítí an Lae: de Hindeberg

Gael mise agus ní thuigim gur cúis náire dom é.

Risteard de Hindeberg  (1863 - 1916)

John Lee Hooker: Níl Bia ar an mBord

Níl Bia ar an mBord

Níl bia ar an mbord
Is tá mo chosa gan bhróg
Níl bia ar an mbord
Is tá mo chosa gan bhróg
Trócaire, a deir na leanaí
Mar nach bhfuil díon os a gcionn

Drochshaol, drochshaol
Drochshaol, drochshaol atá lán d'éad
Drochshaol, drochshaol
Drochshaol, drochshaol atá lán d'éad
Mura bhfaighimse lámh chúnta
Ní bheidh mé anseo i gceann trí mhí

Níl bia ar an mbord
Is tá mo chosa gan bhróg
Níl bia ar an mbord
Is tá mo chosa gan bhróg
Trócaire, a deir na leanaí
Mar nach bhfuil díon os a gcionn

Drochshaol, drochshaol
Drochshaol, drochshaol atá lán d'éad
Drochshaol, drochshaol
Drochshaol, drochshaol atá lán d'éad
Mura bhfaighimse lámh chúnta
Ní bheidh mé anseo i gceann trí mhí

Mo chosa gan bhróg
Is níl aon bhia ag dul ar an mbord
Mo chosa gan bhróg
Is níl aon bhia ag dul ar an mbord
Ó, nach brónach!
Scread aráin na leanaí.

NO FOOD ON MY TABLE/NO SHOES (John Lee Hooker)

No food on my table
And no shoes to put on my feet
No food on my table
And no shoes to put on my feet
My children cry for mercy
They got no place to call their own

Hard times, hard times
Hard times, seem like a jealous thing
Hard times, hard times
Hard times seem like a jealous thing
If someone don't help me
I just can't be around three months long

No food on my table
And no shoes to put on my feet
No food on my table
And no shoes to put on my feet
My children cry for mercy
They got no place to call their own

Hard times, hard times
Hard times, seem like a jealous thing
Hard times, hard times
Hard times seem like a jealous thing
If someone don't help me
I just can't be around three months long

No shoes on my feet
And no food to go on my table  
No shoes on my feet
And no food to go on my table
Oh, no, too sad
Children crying for bread

Graifítí an Lae: de Brún

Guím beannacht Mhic Dé ar na Gaeil a shiúlann
Ar shráideanna naofa Átha Cliath
 

Pádraig de Brún (1889 - 1960)

Graifítí an Lae: Damhsa Gallda

Ní gá domsa a rá le Gael ar bith gan baint a bheith aige le damhsa Gallda.

 

'Mac Dara' ( An Chearnóg, Feabhra 1923)

Black Mountain Blues le Bessie Smith

Sna Cruacha Dubha, gheofá bos ón tachrán
Sna Cruacha Dubha, gheofá bos ón tachrán
Bíonn fuisce ón mbáibín, is bíonn na héin gan amhrán.

Sna Cruacha Dubha, tá an pobal ar strae
Sna Cruacha Dubha, tá an pobal ar strae
Gheofá púdar gunna leis an mbainne sa tae!

Sna Cruacha Dubha, deacair fear a choinneáil
Sna Cruacha Dubha, deacair fear a choinneáil
Deacair fear a fháil ciontach, deacair ceart a fháil

Bhí fear agam sna Cruacha, sé a bhí go breá
Bhí fear agam sna Cruacha, sé a bhí go breá
Fuair sé cailín Domhnaigh is tá mo chroí á leá.

Tá mo thriall ar na Cruacha le gunna is rásúr géar
Tá mo thriall ar na Cruacha le gunna is rásúr géar
Chun é stialladh ina bheatha is a mharú le piléar

Sna Cruacha Dubha, foghlaimeoidh tú ceacht
Sna Cruacha Dubha, foghlaimeoidh tú ceacht
Aimseoidh an piléar thú, ó go cruinn is go beacht

Táim lán de phoitín is an diabhal thiar orm
Táim lán de phoitín is an diabhal thiar orm
Táim i dtrioblóid cheart is tá na Cruacha gorm

                              ~      

Back in Black Mountain, a child will smack your face
Back in Black Mountain, a child will smack your face
Babies cryin' for liquor, and all the birds sing bass

Black Mountain people are bad as they can be
Black Mountain people are bad as they can be
They uses gunpowder just to sweeten their tea

Back in Black Mountain, can't keep a man in jail
Back in Black Mountain, can't keep a man in jail
If the jury finds him guilty, the judge'll go the bail

Had a man in Black Mountain, sweetest man in town
Had a man in Black Mountain, the sweetest man in town
He met a city gal, and he throwed me down

I'm bound for Black Mountain, me and my razor and my gun
Lord, I'm bound for Black Mountain, me and my razor and gun
I'm gonna shoot him as he stands still, and cut him as he runs

Down in Black Mountain, they all shoot quick and straight
Down in Black Mountain, they all shoot quick and straight
The bullet'll get you, if you start to dodgin' too late

Got the devil in my soul, and I'm full of bad booze
Got the devil in my soul, and I'm full of bad booze
I'm out here for trouble, I've got the Black Mountain blues

Langston Hughes: Amhrán Báistí Mhí Aibreáin

Amhrán Báistí Mhí Aibreáin

Lig don bháisteach tú a phógadh
Lig di sileadh ar do chloigeann ina deora líofa airgid
Lig di suantraí a chanadh duit
Cruthaíonn an bháisteach locháin shéimhe ar an gcosán
Cruthaíonn an bháisteach linnte reatha sa gháitéar
Seinneann an bháisteach geantraí bhog suain ar an díon istoíche
Agus is geal liom í mar bháisteach

April Rain Song

Let the rain kiss you
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops
Let the rain sing you a lullaby
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk
The rain makes running pools in the gutter
The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night
And I love the rain.

Langston Hughes

Graifítí an Lae: Béaloideas

Tá a fhios agamsa cad is béaloideas ann agus ní ligfinn d'iníon liomsa staidéar a dhéanamh air.

Robert Atkinson, scoláire Gaeilge (1839-1909)

Langston Hughes: Cliaraí

Cliaraí

Leathan é mo chár
le gáire
domhain is ea mo bhráid
is binn
ceapann tú
nár iompraíos náire
agus pianta
le mo linn?

Toisc leathan é mo chár
le gáire
ní chloiseann tusa
scréach ná liú
cé aerach iad
mo chosa ag damhsa
gheobhadsa bás
nach dtuigeann tú

Minstrel Man

Because my mouth
Is wide with laughter
And my throat
Is deep with song,
You do not think
I suffer after
I have held my pain
So long?

Because my mouth
Is wide with laughter,
You do not hear
My inner cry?
Because my feet
Are gay with dancing,
You do not know
I die?

Langston Hughes

Graifítí an Lae: Nietzsche

Nietzsche le Edvard Munch

Nuair a fhéachann tú isteach san aibhéis, féachann an aibhéis isteach ionatsa chomh maith.

Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900)

Na Gormacha Langston Hughes

Nuair a bhriseann an iall
ar an dá bhróg
Agus deabhadh ort -
Och och ochón!

Nuair a théann tú 'dtí an siopa
Is tú ag lorg císte
Is sleamhnaíonn an phingin dheireanach
Trí pholl i do bhriste!

                                    

The Blues

When the shoe strings break
On both your shoes
And you're in a hurry-
That's the blues.

When you go to buy a candy bar
And you've lost the dime you had-
Slipped through a hole in your pocket somewhere-
That's the blues, too, and bad!

Graifítí an Lae: Chomsky

Go bunúsach, córas is ea an caipitleachas ina bhfuil gach aon rud ar díol.

Noam Chomsky

Graifítí an Lae: Banksy & Krishnamurphy

Cum do ghraifítí féin!

Krishnamurphy

Graifítí an Lae: Murray Bookchin

An fhadhb is mó ná struchtúr na sochaí a athrú chun go mbeadh an chumhacht ag na daoine.

Murray Bookchin (1921-2006)

Graifítí an Lae: Errico Malatesta

Croílár an údarásaíochais é an foréigean díreach faoi mar is croílár an ainrialachais é diúltú don fhoréigean.

Errico Malatesta (1853 -1932)

Graifítí an Lae: Michael Davitt

Táim beáráilte as an gClub, a Mhamaí . . .

  

Michael Davitt (1950-2005)

---

(Éist leis anseo)

Graifítí an Lae: Abbie Hoffmann

"Tá sé áiféiseach a shamhlú gurb ann do na meáin chun oideachas a chur orainn nó chun eolas a leathnú mar níl ansin ach uimhir a deich nó a haon déag ar an liosta acu. Príomhchuspóir na meán ná cac a dhíol linn, stuif nach bhfuil gá againn leis."

Abbie Hoffman (1936 -1989)

Graifítí an Lae - Proudhon

"An té a leagfadh lámh ormsa chun mé a rialú is forghabhálaí agus is tíoránach é. Fógraím ina namhaid agam é."

Pierre-Joseph Proudhon (1809 - 1865)

Graifítí an Lae: Abbey

"Caithfidh tírghráthóir a bheith ullamh i gcónaí chun a thír a chosaint in aghaidh an rialtais."

Edward Abbey (1927-1989)

Foilsitheoireacht na Gaeilge faoi bhláth - thar lear!

 http://www.nuascealta.com/index2.php?id=57

Nach breá an rud é go bhfuil foilsitheoireacht na Gaeilge faoi bhláth ar an gcoigríoch. Ní inniu ná inné a thosaigh an obair seo, ar ndóigh. Mar is eol dúinn go léir, bhí gort na foilsitheoireachta Gaeilge á threabhadh in Antuairp, i Sasana, i Lobháin, i bPáras agus áiteanna eile i gcaitheamh na gcianta:
http://www.dublinheritage.ie/historic_collections/orchiste_na_gaeilge.html

Tá stair na foilsitheoireachta Gaeilge i Meiriceá suimiúil chomh maith, gan dabht, agus tá An Gael á fhoilsiú go tréan i gcónaí. An bhfuil aon rud ar siúl sa Mheán Oirthear, san Afraic nó san Áise? Aisteach go leor, nuair a bhogann Éireannaigh go Dubai agus áiteanna mar sin, an chéad rud a dheineann siad ná Cumann CLG a bhunú. Ní ritheann sé leo, áfach, iris a bhunú nó leabharlann bheag a oscailt dóibh féin.

Pé ar domhan scéal é, d'fhéadfá a rá go bhfuil foilsitheoireacht na Gaeilge faoi bhláth sa chibearspás, le Amazon, Kobo, Nook Books agus na dreamanna sin go léir. Is cuma cá bhfuil cónaí anois ort, d'fhéadfá iris Ghaeilge nó blag Gaeilge a fhoilsiú agus éisteacht le Raidió na Gaeltachta, abair, ar do shuaimhneas agus tú ag marcaíocht ar chamall nó ar eilifint. Cad déarfadh Peig Sayers, n'fheadar.
 

Tá Nuascéalta thuasluaite ann ó 2011 ach fuaireas amach ó bheith ag caint le roinnt daoine le déanaí, daoine ar léitheoirí iad, nach raibh a fhios acu a leithéid a bheith ann. An ré dhigiteach, ré an eolais? Ní gá gurb ea. Tá gá le níos mo bolscaireachta, bolscaireacht de chaighdeán ard, i saol na Gaeilge - ag baile agus i gcéin - chun cur in aghaidh bholscaireacht impiriúil an Bhéarla.

An dtacaíonn Rialtas na hÉireann le foilsitheoireacht na Gaeilge thar lear, an Chomhairle Ealaíon, Clár na Leabhar Gaeilge, Idirmhalartán Litríocht Éireann, ár gcuid ambasáidí agus mar sin de?
 

Níl a fhios agam an bhfuil gléasanna léitheoireachta in úsáid ag pobal léitheoireachta na Gaeilge nó nach bhfuil. Is dóigh le scríbhneoirí áirithe gur cheart deireadh a chur le cóipcheart. Creidimse go bhfuil ábhar díospóireachta ansin gan amhras. Leabhair a bheith ar fáil saor in aisce do chách? Ábhar machnaimh. Tá  scata leabhar ar fáil le híoslódáil saor in aisce ar an suíomh seo agus a thuilleadh ag teacht! Níl a fhios agam cé a léifidh iad ná cén áit ar chlár na cruinne a léifear iad.
 

Rud amháin a thuigeann scríbhneoirí agus foilsitheoirí go dianmhaith is ea an méid seo: níor éirigh linn litearthacht sa Ghaeilge a chur chun cinn i gceart. Níl a fhios agam fiú amháin ar éirigh linn meas ar an litríocht a chothú i gceart sna scoileanna.
 

Is i mBéarla a bhíonn fotheidil ar TG4; i bhfocail eile, litearthacht sa Bhéarla atá á cur chun cinn aige.Níl sé ródhéanach an nós sin, an cultúr sin, a athrú agus fotheidil Ghaeilge a chur chun cinn - fiú mura mbeadh i gceist leis sin ach scannán eachtrannach amháin in aghaidh na seachtaine agus fotheidil Ghaeilge air. Buile beag ach buile éifeachtach go maith mar sin féin chun an litearthacht sa Ghaeilge a scaipeadh. 

Bailíonn brobh beart.

Graifítí an Lae: Seanfhocal Indiach

Má shuíonn tú sách fada ar bhruach na Gainséise, rachaidh corpáin do naimhde go léir thar bráid.

Seanfhocal Indiach

Graifítí an Lae: Karl Marx

Téigh do bhealach féin agus lig do na daoine a bheith ag caint.

Karl Marx (1818-1883)

Graifítí an Lae: Zapata

"is fearr bás a fháil is tú i do sheasamh ná bheith beo is tú ar do ghlúine."

Emiliano Zapata (1879 - 1919)

Gealbhan sa Gheimhreadh

Tá cónaí ar an gcumadóir Conallach Derek Ball i nGlaschú le fada an lá. Tá ceol curtha aige le saothar liom i nGaeilge agus i mBéarla agus tá caidreamh cneasta cruthaitheach againn lena chéile ó bhíomar inár slatairí. Bhuel, ní raibh Derek riamh ina shlataire. Agus ní bheidh.
 

Ar aon chuma, oíche dá rabhas san árasán aige nár tháinig fonn mór orm eipic a scríobh ach ní raibh aon pháipéar sa tigh agus ní raibh siopa sa chathair ar oscailt. Lig sé dom an páipéar balla a bhaint anuas agus scríobh ar an gcúl. Is dóigh liom go bhfuil cúpla líne den eipic sin fós aige!
 

Más buan mo chuimhne, bhí cara eile linn, Eugene Moloney as Carraig na Siúire nó áit éigin mar sin, inár dteannta an oíche sin agus go gairid tar éis dó m'eipicse a léamh, labhair Íosa leis agus athbhaisteadh é.
 

D'iarr Derek orm carúl Nollag a scríobh dó, i mBéarla, agus mar chúiteamh ar an bpáipéar balla aige a lot fadó (agus cara linn beirt a chomáint i dtreo Íosa), chumas na liricí dó ar an toirt. Is fiú na nótaí ag Derek a léamh - sea, na nótaí ceoil, cinnte, ach na nótaí réamh-mhínithe chomh maith, go háirithe an tagairt do Hannibal Lector a bhain stangadh asam, caithfidh mé a rá.

Tá teacht orthu anseo:

Graifítí an Lae: Mikhail Bakunin

Ar mhaith leat go mbeadh sé dodhéanta go n-imreodh éinne ansmacht ar a chomhdhaonnaí? Bí cinnte mar sin nach mbeadh cumhacht ag éinne.

Mikhail Bakunin

Haiku le J. D. Salinger

cailín ar an eitleán
chas ceann a bábóige
chun breathnú ormsa

J.D. Salinger (1919-2010)

Graifítí an Lae: Ursula K. Le Guin

Ní leat aon ní. Le húsáid is ea é. Le roinnt is ea é. Mura roinnfidh tú é, ní féidir é a úsáid.

Ursula K. Le Guin

Le híoslódáil saor in aisce: Rogha Dánta K. Satchidanandan

Mar chuid dem fheachtas chun cnuasaigh áirithe a chur ar fáil saor in aisce, tá dánta K. Satchidanandan ar fáil anois (cliog ar an nasc), duine de mhórfhilí na hIndia agus na hÁise Thoir Theas trí chéile.

Anamimirce
is ea an fhilíocht a aistriú …

K. Satchidanandan

Graifítí an Lae: Thomas Pynchon

Tá teoiric ag imeacht gur comhcheilg ollmhór Mháisiúnach ab ea na Stáit Aontaithe agus is ea fós agus an grúpa ar a dtugtar na hIlluminati i gceannas ar an rud ar fad. Is deacair stánadh i bhfad ar an tsúil aonair aisteach sin ar bharr na pirimide atá ar gach nóta dollair gan géilleadh, beagán, don scéal.

Thomas Pynchon

Missing the Bus: Poetry and Social Relevance

Poetry that has social relevance need not necessarily depict contemporary situations, or real situations, but when it does it can have an immediacy that appeals to an audience, or, conversely, makes an audience feel decidedly uncomfortable.

Until recent times, many people – at least those who watch the news – if asked to conjure up a vision of Ireland, the unrest and violence in Northern Ireland would probably spring to mind. The poem that best describes that troubled society, in my view, is by an Irish-language poet, Gearóid Mac Lochlainn. Gearóid criss-crosses a lot between languages and his voice has been influenced by reggae, jazz, rap, traditional Irish music, Native American shamanism and Rastafarianism and he has revived the macaronic tradition in a curious way.

Poets such as Linton Kwesi Johnson had a liberating effect on him, showing him the poetic value of the natural rhythms of street talk and the poetry of Padraic Fiacc paved the way for a questioning, urban vision. Gearóid’s poem Bus appears in the book Criss-Cross. Mo Chara (CIC 2011). Curiously enough, it appears in English, with my Irish-language translation.

The poem must be quoted in full. It manages to have a shattering effect while being quite understated, for the most part. At least, I find it understated. Some might find it frank, even rollicking or loud. For the uninitiated, let me explain that a ‘prod’ is a Protestant. A ‘fenian’ (or Fenian) is a derogatory nick-name for a republican or nationalist.  ‘Shop ya to the dole’ means to report to the authorities that somebody is not entitled to social security/government benefit.

Liam Carson, a Belfast man, director of the Irish-language literature festival IMRAM, helped me to fine tune my analysis of the background to Mac Lochlainn’s poem: in order to imagine the social divide in Northern Ireland, picture a) the Protestant or Unionist community as similar in some ways to the Boers, and b) the Catholic or Nationalist (or Republican) community as the so-called kaffirs. (By Unionist we mean those who wished to maintain the Union with Britain while Republicans hoped for a 32-county united Ireland, but in each case one would have to ask, was the feeling mutual?)

Yes, the class divide was often as painful and as obvious and as totally unjust as the apartheid system, and the evil was compounded by religious animosity. A civil rights movement tried to tear the system apart by exposing the injustices, blatant injustices ignored by the Government in the South of Ireland as well as that of Britain. The violent response of Unionism and of the forces of the state to the not-unreasonable demands of the civil rights protestors created a political vacuum which was ready for the gun and the bomb.

Many people were looking over their shoulder a lot, as you can well imagine, or keeping the head down. Today, even after over fifteen years of relative peace and a power-sharing government, the city of Belfast has more 'peace lines' – reinforced barriers that separate working-class Catholic and Protestant areas – than ever before. 99 peace walls or interfaces exist in Belfast!  Even in so-called 'mixed' middle-class areas, there is an invisible barrier that separates people of different religious backgrounds. Thank you Britain, thank you for the Ulster Plantation and for all of your other colonial adventures. Wonderful work!

Here’s the poem. It defines an era:

Bus

I left the house, said fuck all to her, just walked out, said Joe
And I’m hurryin for the bus all fuckn stressed out
I’m joggin’ down the fuckn hill and my ulcer’s on fire
And I can hardly breathe trying to catch this fuckn bus, man
And then I missed the fucker of a bastard bus by about ten seconds
Fuckn disaster
I’m watching the fucker drive away
Blowing smoke fumes in my face

So I had to hang about on the Saintfield Road
Just hangin about like
Waiting on the next bus
Just waiting there, doin fuck all, dying for a pint
Just mindin my own business, like
When I see one of the middle class prods
From down the bottom end of the street
Walkin towards me. An I’m noddin hello
And bein polite an all, and hows it goin an all
Because I know his face
And we live in the same middle-class proddy street
And the war’s all over and all that crap
Fucksake

And then I’m thinkin
That maybe he even thinks I’m one of them
Cos I say fuck all and keep a low profile
And why wouldn’t  ya?
It’s not like I wanna socialise with my prod neighbours
They might burn me out
Except they’re all middle class
And don’t do that type of thing
Up there…

But they’d probably shop ya to the dole
For bein a poor fenian
Ya know

But anyway, he’s walkin right up to me
And he’s gonna speak to me…
And I’m wonderin what’s goin on, like
And he stops and asks me for a light
And so I fumble about and dig out the lighter
And it’s like a wee bit windy, so I try to light the lighter
And I hold up the flame, and it goes out
And then I say sorry and light it again
And it’s still windy
So he cups his hands over the top of mine
And makes a wee windshield for the flame, see
And he lights his feg
And he thanks me

And he walks on down the road

And then the next bus comes
And I get on the bus
And I’m sittin on the bus
And I’m thinkin this was all really strange
I’m thinkin that he touched me
He touched me
Like his hands touched mine
when I gave him the light, see

And I’m rollin down the Ormeau Road on the bus
And I’m thinking it’s the first time
I’ve ever been touched by a Protestant

And I’m feeling strange
About the whole thing
He touched my hands, you know…
He touched me

That’s Gearóid Mac Lochlainn’s Bus. For me it’s the poem that encapsulates the Northern malaise. It’s colourful, engaging, self-mocking, street wise and full of humanity, expressing a tenderness that  tries to live and breathe and come to terms with itself in a toxic community. It perfectly describes the kind of apartheid that existed in Northern Ireland and that still lingers there, smouldering in the wasteland of history.

A fellow-poet in the Irish language, Liam Ó Muirthile, reminded me of the irrelevance of relevance:
“The world of composition is essentially a private one, but the poet himself, must of necessity share a language with his/her audience. Nevertheless the primary audience of the poet, his social sphere, is himself and the Muse. This has always been true, even though the social function of poetry has undergone many changes over the centuries. However, the status of the poet – the learned poet with an achieved body of work – is still quite high even in so-called Western society, which in itself may be a throwback to the ancient beliefs of the druidic power of the poet.”

Good point. Now let us move South, to the Republic. In the South, a literary apartheid (of sorts) has been in force but of course it would never call itself that! It is a division between the two languages, those who write in the older language, Irish (Gaelic) and those who write in English, among whom are many modern luminaries who fled the Northern troubles and were embraced by the South.

This cultural and linguistic chasm is not unique to Ireland, of course, and is much more prevalent than we are led to believe. One of the many poets I have translated into Irish, Germain Droogenbroodt, wrote to me saying, “All marginal languages, including Flemish/Dutch, have the same problem. The “imperial” language is American; but it is not language alone which suffers the effects of capitalistic imperialism: what about music, habits, food, drink? However, as we have recently seen in Europe, capitalism has been eating itself and continues to eat itself, like that famous painting by Goya.” Yes, Germain, that opens up another can of worms, doesn’t it!

 Arrive in Ireland and our literary reputation is there to greet you at the airport or on a poster in a pub, Goldsmith, Swift, Shaw, Lady Gregory, Yeats, Wilde, Synge, O’Casey, Friel, Behan, Heaney and all the others, smiling in a benign fashion or staring wistfully into empty space. And where are the Gaels? Swept under the carpet for the most part. (The fact that many of our well-known literati, O’Flaherty, Brian O’Nolan, Frank O’Connor, Behan etc also wrote in Irish is often conveniently forgotten).

And so, if you write in Irish, even if you’re writing about something as innocent as roses in moonlight, you are engaging in an act of defiance, you are challenging the literary map makers, redrawing the literary tourist trail, in short, you are being a revisionist: the trouble is, nobody knows what it is you are writing about except for a few of your peers because as a literary language, the oldest in Europe after Greek and Latin, Irish has now gone underground, largely ignored by the media, most of it untranslated and therefore unknown to the world. Standards of literacy in Irish among the general population are appalling. How can writing in Irish have social relevance if it is not being read? What is one to do? Is it too late? Have we missed the bus? If so, maybe now is a good time to look around and talk to our neighbour. (In his language, of course!)