File agus fear haiku é Hamill, fear a fuair cuireadh oifigiúil ón Teach Bán chun a bheith i láthair ag an ócáid fhileata. Ní raibh aon tuairim ag an mBuiseach go bhfásfadh gluaiseacht chun filí a aontú in aghaidh an chogaidh as an gcuireadh sin uaithi.
http://poetsagainstthewar.org/
Nuair a chuala Laura go raibh na filí ag éirí amach ina coinne is beag nár shalaigh sí í féin chomh mór sin nach bhféadfaí an Teach Bán a thabhairt ar an áit go deo arís. Chuir sí an ócáid fhileata ar ceal.
Níl díolaim againne i nGaeilge a chuireann in aghaidh an chogaidh, an bhfuil? Is é sin le rá, bundánta i nGaeilge a sheasann ar son na síochána agus in aghaidh an chogaidh? Mura bhfuil, cén fáth nach bhfuil? Sea, táim ag fiafraí díom féin, os ard, cén fáth nach bhfuil? Cén fáth nach bhfuil? Cuirimis a leithéid de dhíolaim ar fáil! Gan mhoill. Agus cuirimis ar fáil í ní dúinn féin amháin ach do Ghaelscoileanna na tíre, don chéad ghlúin eile, i dtreo is go mbeidh a fhios ag sliocht ár sleachta go raibh guthanna áirithe in Éirinn ag cur in aghaidh na síorchogaíochta agus ag seasamh le luachanna na síochána agus na sibhialtachta.
Cad iad na dánta frithchogaidh atá sa Ghaeilge? Aifreann na Marbh le Eoghan Ó Tuairisc, ar ndóigh. Ó Mo Bheirt Phalaistíneach le Michael Davitt. Níl aon ghanntanas dánta frithchogaidh sa Ghaeilge. Dubh le Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill, abair, ar thitim Srebenice. Tá dánta le Gearóid Mac Lochlainn agus daoine eile a bhaineann leis na Trioblóidí ó thuaidh.
Dá mbeadh orm dán dem chuid féin a roghnú le haghaidh na díolama sin, roghnóinn dán an teidil as Tuairiscíonn Krishnamurphy ó Bhagdad.
Tá dán in aghaidh an chogaidh lofa úd san Iaráic ag Cathal Ó Searcaigh agus is é seo a leanas an leagan Béarla de a dheineas-sa. Is féidir an bundán éachtach a léamh sa leabhar Gúrú i gClúidíní (Clo Iar-Chonnacht 2006)
A Postcard to Yusuf in Iraq
A balmy March night in Manhattan
I stand at the doorstep
where you once lived in Bleeker Street
and where I loved you in the eighties.
I linger at this door into delight,
the moon-madness of our embraces comes flooding back
and how we spoke of your homeland –
the sunny stretches between Najaf and Hillah.
Where are you tonight? I don’t know,
the foundations of the world shiver, beloved,
from Najaf to Hillah; your people tremble
beneath a mighty hail of cowardly assault.
Bombs of the barbarians rain on you
and your cities are ruins, your towns and villages destroyed,
and I fear greatly that your life may be in peril
as they come to lay waste to what lies between Najaf and Hillah.
Tonight as I linger at the door to my heart’s desire
thinking of you and of something you once said:
‘The poet’s homeland is in the hearts
of the oppressed.’ Tonight, beloved,
what can I say but assure you
in a language not heard above tumult and confusion
that I am with you, entirely. The bomb
is victorious over my word and the missile mocks my poem,
but tonight I am with you, my treasure of all Iraq
for your heart, throbbing there in the crimson fire of war,
is my homeland, my poem, my humanity.
And so, man of my heart and soul,
I am with you now from the crown of my head
in Najaf to the soles of my feet in Hillah.
