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Song
The weight of the world
is love.
Under the burden
of solitude,
under the burden
of dissatisfaction
the weight,
the weight we carry
is love.
Who can deny?
In dreams
it touches
the body,
in thought
constructs
a miracle,
in imagination
anguishes
till born
in human—
looks out of the heart
burning with purity-
for the burden of life
is love,
but we carry the weight
wearily,
and so must rest
in the arms of love
at last,
must rest in the arms
of love.
No rest
without love,
no sleep
without dreams
of love—
be mad or chill
obsessed with angels
or machines,
the final wish
is love
—cannot be bitter,
cannot deny,
cannot withhold
if denied:
the weight is too heavy
—must give
for no return
as thought
is given
in solitude
in all the excellence
of its excess.
The warm bodies
shine together
in the darkness,
the hand moves
to the center
of the flesh,
the skin trembles
in happiness
and the soul comes
joyful to the eye—
yes, yes,
that's what
I wanted,
I always wanted,
I always wanted,
to return
to the body
where I was born.
~ Allen Ginsberg ~
(Collected Poems 1947-1980)
Amhrán
Meáchan an domhain
is ea an grá
faoi eire
an aonarachais,
faoi eire
na míshástachta
an meáchan,
an meáchan a iompraímid
is ea an grá.
An féidir é a shéanadh?
Beireann sé
ar an gcolainn
i dtaibhrimh,
cruthaíonn
míorúilt
san aigne,
é cráite
sa tsamhlaíocht
go saolaítear
ina dhuine é –
Féachann amach ón gcroí
is é ar lasadh le híonghlaineacht –
mar is é meáchan an tsaoil é
an grá,
ach is trom
le hiompar é,
mar sin is gá scíth a ligean
i mbaclainn an ghrá
sa deireadh,
scíth a ligean i mbaclainn
an ghrá.
Níl scíth ann
gan ghrá,
níl suan ann
gan taibhreamh
ar an ngrá –
le gealaigh nó go sámh
gafa le haingil
nó le hinnill,
an ghuí dheiridh
ná an grá
- ní féidir dó a bheith goirt,
ní féidir é a shéanadh,
ní féidir é a cheilt
má dhiúltaítear dó:
Tá an meáchan róthrom
is gá é a thabhairt
gan aisíoc
mar a thagann smaoineamh
san uaigneas
i bhfoirfeacht iomlán
thar cuimse.
Colainneacha teo
ag lonrú le chéile
sa dorchadas,
bogann lámh
go dtí lár
na colainne,
an craiceann ar crith
le háthas
agus nochtar an t-anam
go ríméadach don tsúil –
Sea, sea
b’in a bhí
uaim
b’in a bhí uaim riamh,
theastaigh uaim riamh
filleadh
ar an gcolainn
inar rugadh mé.
Sang
The wecht o the warl
is luve.
Aneath the haud-Doon
o aesomeness,
aneath the haud-doon
o deavance
the wecht,
the wecht we cairry's
luve.
Whae's tae doot it?
in drames
it tigs
the bodie,
in thocht
biggs
a meeracle,
in jalousin
drees
til born
a bodie -
leuks frae the hert
brennin wi purity -
fir the haud-doon o life
is luve,
bit cairryin the wecht's
no eith,
we maun rist
i the airms o luve
hinnerly,
maun rist i the airms
o luve.
Nae rist
wi'oot luve,
nae sloum
wi'oot drames
o luve -
be wud or shill
taen up wi angels
or machines,
the hinmaist wush's
luve
- cannae be soor,
cannae denee,
cannae withhald
if deneed:
it's ower wechty
- maun gie
fir nae retour
as thocht
is gien
in aesomeness
in aw the brawness
o'ts superplus.
The wairm bodies
blinter thegither
i the derkness,
the haun muives
tae the mids
o the flaish,
the skin trummles
wi blitheness
an the sowl cums
blithe tae the ee -
aye, aye,
yon's whit
a ayewis ettilt fir,
ayewis ettilt,
ayewis ettilt,
tae retour
tae the bodie
whaur a wis born.
