No Title Required / Níl Gá le Teideal

No Title Required

It has come to this: I'm sitting under a tree
beside a river
on a sunny morning.
It's an insignificant event
and won't go down in history.
It's not battles and pacts,
where motives are scrutinized,
or noteworthy tyrannicides.

And yet I'm sitting by this river, that's a fact.
And since I'm here
I must have come from somewhere,
and before that
I must have turned up in many other places,
exactly like the conquerors of nations
before setting sail.

Even a passing moment has its fertile past,
its Friday before Saturday,
its May before June.
Its horizons are no less real
than those that a marshal's field glasses might scan.

This tree is a poplar that's been rooted here for years.
The river is the Raba; it didn't spring up yesterday.
The path leading through the bushes
wasn't beaten last week.
The wind had to blow the clouds here
before it could blow them away.

And though nothing much is going on nearby,
the world is no poorer in details for that.
It's just as grounded, just as definite
as when migrating races held it captive.

Conspiracies aren't the only things shrouded in silence.
Retinues of reasons don't trail coronations alone.
Anniversaries of revolutions may roll around,
but so do oval pebbles encircling the bay.

The tapestry of circumstance is intricate and dense.
Ants stitching in the grass.
The grass sewn into the ground.
The pattern of a wave being needled by a twig.

So it happens that I am and look.
Above me a white butterfly is fluttering through the air
on wings that are its alone,
and a shadow skims through my hands
that is none other than itself, no one else's but its own.

When I see such things, I'm no longer sure
that what's important
is more important than what's not.

 ~ Wisława Szymborska ~

(Poems New and Collected 1957-1997,
trans. S. Baranczak and C. Cavanagh)

Níl Gá le Teideal

Is mar seo atá; mé im shuí faoi chrann
cois abhann
maidin ghréine.
Ócáid gan tábhacht
nach gcuimhneoidh an stair uirthi.
Ní cathanna is comhaontuithe atá anseo againn
ina scrúdaítear ceannfháthanna
is níor maraíodh tíoránach.

Fós féin, táim im shuí cois na habhann seo, gan bhréag.
Agus ós anseo atáim
caithfidh gur thána as ball éigin
agus roimis sin
caithfidh gur nochtas in an-chuid áiteanna,
díreach ar nós cloíteoirí náisiún
sular chrochadar a gcuid seolta.

An meander féint tá a chúlra méith aige,
Aoine aige roimh an Satharn
Bealtaine aige roimh Mheitheamh.
Is ann d’fhíor na spéire aige siúd
chomh cinnte is atá radharc ina ghloiní ag an marascal.

Poibleog atá sa chrann agus fréamhacha anseo aige le fada.
Is í an Raba an abhainn; ní inné a scaird sí aníos.
An chonair trí na sceacha
ní seachtain ó shin a buaileadh í.
Caithfidh gur shéid an ghaoth na néalta anseo
sula scuabfaidh sí chun siúil arís iad.

 Is bíodh is nach bhfuil mórán ag titim amach thart anseo
níl an domhan gann ar mhionghnéithe dá dheasca sin.
Tá sé chomh fódúil is chomh fíor
is a bhí agus é gafa ag treibheanna fáin.


Ní comhchealga amháin atá faoi bhrat tosta.
Ní corónú amháin a leanann lucht coimhdeachta na réasún.
D’fhéadfadh go mbeadh cuimhní ar réabhlóidí ag rabhláil thart
ach bíonn púróga ubhchruthacha amhlaidh is an bhá á timpeallú acu.
Is casta agus is dlúth í taipéis na gcúinsí.
Fuáil na seangán san fhéar.
An féar fuáilte sa talamh.
Patrún toinne á ghreanadh ag cipín.

Is mar sin domsa anseo ag breathnú thart.
Féileacán bán ag eiteallaigh os mo chionn tríd an aer
agus is leis féin amháin iad na sciatháin,
is scinneann scáil trí mo lámha
agus ní aon ní eile í ach í féin, ní le héinne eile í ach léi féin amháin.

Ar fheiceáil dom na nithe sin, nílim cinnte a thuilleadh
an bhfuil an ní tábhachtach
níos tábhachtaí ná an ní atá gan tábhacht.