Mustafa Seven

Mustafa Seven
ag stánadh idir an dá shúil orainn… aislingí ár n-óige	staring at us in the face… dreams of our youth
	κοιτάζοντάς μας καταπρόσωπο… όνειρα της νιότης μας Leagan Gréigíse: Sarah Thilykou

Haiku le Issa on mbliain 1804

Loiteog is Snáthaid Mhór le Qi Baishi

snáthaid mhór -
eitlíonn dhá throigh
ansin dhá throigh eile

.蜻蛉や二尺飛では又二尺

tombô ya ni shaku tonde wa mata ni shaku

Graifítí an Lae

Arsa Íosa, 'Tar go múinfidh mise rúin duit nach bhfuil feicthe ag aon neach beo. Mar tá ríocht mhór fhairsing ann gan teorainn, ríocht nach bhfuil feicthe ag glúin aingeal ar bith ina bhfuil Spiorad mór dofheicthe nach bhfuil feicthe ag súil aingil ar bith, Spiorad nach  raibh aon smaoineamh riamh a bhí sa chroí in ann a thuiscint agus nár tugadh ainm ar bith riamh air.'

Soiscéal Iúdáis

Bruce Springsteen: Is le Leannáin an Oíche

Tóg mé a stóirín, faoi mar atáim
Bímis dlúth, agus tuig a ghrá
Gur airc is ea mian, is tine m'anál' -
Grá is ea féasta  a bheathaíonn cách.

Seo leat is tuig é seo, a ghrá
An mothú sin is mé faoi do lámh
T'rom do lámh, tar liom faoin mbraillín
Níl teacht acu ort
Teacht acu ort
Teacht acu ort

Is le leannáin, leannáin an oíche
Is leis an oíche í an drúis
Is le leannáin, leannáin an oíche
Fúinne an oíche, [an] oíche fúinn.

Má bhíonn amhras orm liom féin
Cligeann grá ó ghuthán i gcéin
Grá is ea aingeal i bhfoirm drúis'
Anseo sa leaba go mbreacfaidh an lá

Seo leat is tuig é seo, a mhian
an mothú sin agus mé id' ghiall
T'rom do lámh is an ghrian 'dul faoi
Níl baint acu leat
Baint acu leat
Baint acu leat

Is le leannáin, leannáin an oíche
Is leis an oíche í an drúis
Is le leannáin, leannáin an oíche
Fúinne an oíche, [an] oíche fúinn.

Le grá bíonn dabht sa suan
An fáinne fí ag dó, a ghrá gan tú
Ní mhairfidh mé beo, maith dhom an tnúthán,
Dóiteán, tá an t-am sin ann, thar gach mothú
Sín chugam do lámh
Chugam do lámh
Chugam do lámh

Á, is le leannáin, leannáin an oíche
Is leis an oíche í an drúis
Is le leannáin, leannáin an oíche
Fúinne an oíche, [an] oíche fúinn.
Le beirt leannán anocht an oíche
Má tá an oíche seo inár gcúis
Is le leannáin, leannáin an oíche
Is leis an ngrá, an grá, an oíche
Is le leannáin, leannáin an oíche
Is leis an oíche í an drúis
Dá mbeadh an oíche seo inár gcúis
Is le leannáin, leannáin an oíche

Because the Night

Take me now baby here as I am

Pull me close, try and understand
Desire is hunger is the fire I breathe
Love is a banquet on which we feed

Come on now try and understand
The way I feel when I'm in your hands
Take my hand come undercover
They can't hurt you now
Can't hurt you now
Can't hurt you now

Because the night belongs to lovers
Because the night belongs to lust
Because the night belongs to lovers
Because the night belongs to us

Have I doubt when I'm alone
Love is a ring, the telephone
Love is an angel disguised as lust
Here in our bed until the morning comes

Come on now try and understand
The way I feel under your command
Take my hand as the sun descends
They can't touch you now
Can't touch you now
Can't touch you now

Because the night belongs to lovers
Because the night belongs to lust
Because the night belongs to lovers
Because the night belongs to us

With love we sleep with doubt
The vicious circle turns and burns without
You I cannot live, forgive the yearning
Burning, I believe it's time, too real to feel
So touch me now
Touch me now
Touch me now

Ahh because the night belongs to lovers
Because the night belongs to lust
Because the night belongs to lovers
Because the night belongs to us

Because tonight there are two lovers
If we believe in the night we trust
Because the night belongs to lovers
Because the night belongs to love
Because the night belongs to lovers
Because the night belongs to lust
Could we believe the night we're lovers
Could we believe in the night we trust
Because the night belongs to lovers...

Inis dom, a Éin, má fheiceann tú mo charasa

Inis dom, a Éin, má fheiceann tú mo charasa!
Má fhilleann sé ar an mbean mhí-ámharach seo,
A Éin, suigh ar chraobh ard
Is breathnaigh ar an domhan braonach seo. An eol duit
Cá bhfuil mo charasa, a Éin?
Beir chuige an nóta seo a scríobhas-sa dó,
Tabhair an scríbhinn seo do mo chara dil!
Má thagann mo shearc abhaile
Taispeáin dó cá bhfuil mo thigh, a éinín.
Tá mo thighse faoin kadam ar bhruach na habhann.
Tá mo thighse san uaigh, a éinín.

Nuair a tháinig an bord

Tháinig an bord,

I dteannta an bhoird, tháinig an ghloine, tháinig an cupán
Tháinig an scian, tháinig an spúnóg, tháinig an forc
Tháinig an pláta
Deireadh le suí is éirí
Tháinig an bord, i dteannta an bhoird, an chathaoir
Tháinig an chathaoir, deireadh leis an stól, áilleacht an Rangoli,
Deireadh le suí an táilliúra, deireadh leis an  seál
Deireadh leis an mbréid gabhail, leis an snáth, leis an éadach deasghnách,

Deireadh leis an bpláta duilleoige, uisce á spraeáil timpeall,
An scaraoid bhán, an cupán deasghnách, na cúig dúile
Deireadh leis an spúnóg dheasghnách, an clog, an 'tikkli'
An marc dearg ar an gclár éadain, an mantra
an marc bán, an 'pranayam', an luaithreach bheannaithe
Deireadh leis an taos santail.
Tháinig an bord, tháinig an chathaoir
Tháinig na bróga, leis an gculaith éadaigh
Tháinig an bruscar ó gach áit
Tháinig an léine, tháinig an carbhat
Deireadh le ní na gcos is na lámh
Deireadh leis an aghaidh a ní, na fiacla
Tar isteach, suigh, tar isteach, suigh
Sábhálann sé am agus airgead
Tháinig an bord, deireadh leis an gcanji, mangó amh
Ruainne cnó cócó
Tháinig an bord, tháinig an tae, an caife
Tháinig an t-arán, an t-im, an t-anraith
Deireadh le cumhracht túise, solas ón lampa ola,
Cad a cailleadh, cad a baineadh amach?
Cad a baineadh amach, cad a cailleadh?
Tháinig an bord, an bord, an bord…

Manohar Sardessai
File Concáinise as Goa

When the table came [Mez Ailem]

Came the table,
Along with the table, came the glass, came the cup
Came the knife, came the spoon, came the fork
Came the plate
No more sitting and rising
Came the table, with the table, the chair
Came the chair, exit the stool, the beauty of the Rangoli
No more sitting cross legged, no more shawl
No more loin cloth, no thread around, no ceremonial drape,
Gone is the leaf plate, the water sprinkling around,
The white cloth, the ritual cup, the five elements
Gone is the ritual spoon, the bell, the ‘tikkli’
The red mark on the forehead, the mantra
The white mark, the ‘pranayam’, the holy ash
Gone is the sandalwood paste.
Came the table, came the chair
Came the shoes, with the suit
Came the garbage from all around
Came the shirt, came the tie
No washing of feet, of hands
No washing the face, the teeth
Enter, sit, enter, eat
Saves time, profits
Came the table, exit the canji, the raw mango
The coconut bit
Came the table, came the tea, the coffee
Came the bread, the butter, the soup
Gone the fragrance of the incense stick, the light of the oil lamp
How much lost, how much gained?
How much gained, how much lost?
Came the table, the table, the table…

 

An Tír Tairngire

Ar luasraon nathrach i ngaineamhlach Utah
Piocaim suas m’airgead is ar ais liom arís
Tiomáint liom thar Waynesboro, fógra glas,
Tá an raidió ar siúl, an t-am ag dul as
Garáiste dhaid, mé ag obair go dian
Tóir ar bhrionglóidí, ag tiomáint istoích’
Is gearr go mbeadsa féin i gceannas, a mhian.

Tá glam ó ghadhair na sráid’
Már dóibh siúd is léir
Dá bhféadfainnse nóiméad a choinneáil im’ lámh
Mister, ní garsún mé, táimse i m’fhear
Tír tairngire atá uaim go géar

Dheineas mo chion le bheith mar atáim
Éirímse gach aon mhaidin, ag sclábhaíocht gach lá,
Ach dalltar an tsúil is fuaraíonn an fhuil
Uaireanta bím chomh lag go bpléascfainn le fonn goil
Phléascfainn is an baile seo a lot
Scian im ghlac, an phian á stróiceadh ó m’ucht
’Bhfuil duine ar bith ann mar táimse anocht?

Tá glam ó ghadhair na sráid’
Már dóibh siúd is léir
Dá bhféadfainnse nóiméad a choinneáil im’ lámh
Mister, ní garsún mé, táimse i m’fhear
Tír tairngire atá uaim go géar

~     ~      ~
Bhuel tá néal dubh ag éirí ón ngaineamh aníos
Phacálas cás is tá m’aghaidh caol díreach ar an stoirm
Tornádó a bheidh ann is beidh gach rud ar lár
Nach seasfaidh an fód go teann más gá
Scaipfear an aisling a dhein tú a chloí
Scaipfear an aisling a bhris do chroí
Scaipfear na bréaga a d’fhág caillte thú, gan aon ní is bristechroíoch.

Tá glam ó ghadhair na sráid’
Már dóibh siúd is léir
Dá bhféadfainnse nóiméad a choinneáil im’ lámh
Mister, ní garsún mé, táimse i m’fhear
Tír tairngire atá uaim go géar
Tír tairngire atá uaim go géar
Tír tairngire atá uaim go géar

Bruce Springsteen

On a rattlesnake speedway in the Utah desert
I pick up my money and head back into town
Driving cross the Waynesboro county line
I got the radio on and I'm just killing time
Working all day in my daddy's garage
Driving all night chasing some mirage
Pretty soon little girl I'm gonna take charge

The dogs on Main Street howl
'cause they understand
If I could take one moment into my hands
Mister I ain't a boy, no I'm a man
And I believe in a promised land

I've done my best to live the right way
I get up every morning and go to work each day
But your eyes go blind and your blood runs cold
Sometimes I feel so weak I just want to explode
Explode and tear this whole town apart
Take a knife and cut this pain from my heart
Find somebody itching for something to start

The dogs on Main Street howl
'cause they understand
If I could reach one moment into my hands
Mister I ain't a boy, no I'm a man
And I believe in a promised land

Hmm
Hmmm
Hmmmm

Well there's a dark cloud rising from the desert floor
I packed my bags and I'm heading straight into the storm
Gonna be a twister to blow everything down
That ain't got the faith to stand its ground
Blow away the dreams that tear you apart
Blow away the dreams that break your heart
Blow away the lies that leave you nothing but lost and brokenhearted

Well the dogs on Main Street howl
'cause they understand
If I could take one moment into my hands
Mister I ain't a boy, no I'm a man
And I believe in a promised land
And I believe in a promised land
And I believe in a promised land

Aubade

Dúisigh, óir tá an oíche caite.
I dtobar na spéire, tumann
an maidneachan a shoitheach réaltaí
le tionlacan ó chantain luath na n-éan.
Is caille iad
na duilleoga óga, ag luascadh.
Nach bog ar an bhféith iad bachlóga an Earraigh.

Dúisigh, óir tá an oíche caite.
An bheatha ar do bheola, ina tost;
an ghaoth aniar aneas gafa ag do dhlaoithe.
Á, codlaíonn tú is laoi na hoíche id' shúile.
Dúisigh. Tá an oíche caite.

Jayshankar Prasad

An Rún

Nuair a fhéachaimse ar do chneas
níos fíneáilte ná duilleoga plantáin,
tuigim rún scil an fhíodóra.
Nuair a fhéachaim ar do shúile,
daite níos gleoite ná an fhearthainn,
tuigim rún an pheintéara.

Nuair a chloisim do ghuth,
chomh maorga leis an each ag siúl,
tuigim mistéir an cheoltóra.
Nuair a fhéachaim ar do mhéara is ar do ladhracha,
níos draíochtúla ná peitil na loiteoige,
tuigimse na healaíona go léir.

D. R. Bendre

Mo Chuid Dánta

Baineann mo chuid dánta le scata rudaí.

Baineann mo chuid dánta le féilte filíochta.
Scríobhadh mo chuid dánta do dhaoine ar do nós féin.
Tógann mo chuid dánta aicearra. Bíonn mo chuid dánta ar muin cúlsruthanna.
Tá mo chuid dánta ar an ngannchuid.
Is mian le mo chuid dánta go dtaitneoidís leat.
Éilíonn mo chuid dánta go gcuirfeá de ghlan mheabhair iad.
Tá duaiseanna ó mo chuid dánta.
Ní chuirfidh mo chuid dánta isteach ar chomórtais.
Tá duaiseanna ó mo chuid dánta ar a shon san.
Is mian le mo chuid dánta a bheith ar an siollabas agus ar an gcuraclam.
Is mian le mo chuid dánta go n-aistreofaí iad go Hiondúis, Maraitis,
Tamailis, Teileagúis, Gúisearáitis, Gearmáinis, Fraincis, Iodáilis, Polainnis,
 Afracáinis agus Meiriceánais.
 Tá díolúine thaidhleoireachta ag teastáil ó mo chuid dánta.
Tá víosa ó mo chuid dánta ar theacht isteach dóibh.
Is mian le mo chuid dánta go ndófaí go poiblí iad ach fir a bheith ann a chaitheann an saghas ceart éadaigh chuige.
Is mian le mo chuid dánta nach n-áireofaí mar chuid den chanóin iad, go fóill.
Ba mhaith le mo chuid dánta go dtiocfaidh an chéad Eliot eile orthu.
Tiocfaidh mo chuid dánta ar an gcéad Eliot eile. Aithneofar é ar mo chuid dánta a athaimsiú.
Is mian le mo chuid dánta a bheith ina n-eipeagraif.
Is mian le mo chuid dánta a bheith ina ngrianghraif d’fhionnmhná broinnfhairsinge a bhfuil nithe míne síodúla acu.
Tugann mo chuid dánta dúshlán don réaltacht fhíorúil.
Is ceannlínte beo agus bunlínte dearga iad mo chuid dánta.
Is mian le mo chuid dánta go suífeá aniar agus éisteacht leis an tost ollmhór nó tiocfaidh siad sa tóir ort.
Tarraingítear mo chuid dánta as na hinní agus as an gcroí agus as an amagdala agus as an drólann shiogmóideach.
Is síolta a cuireadh i do cheann iad mo chuid dánta; péacfaidh siad nuair a chaillfear thú.
Is víris iad mo chuid dánta; athchruthóidh siad iad féin mar nithe beo bíodh is gur nithe neamhbheo iad mar tá siad in ann iompú ina gcriostal.
Cláir is ea mo chuid dánta; scriosfaidh siad do thiomántán crua agus imphléascfaidh siad.
Tá mo chuid dánta dainséarach; aosaigh amháin atá in ann iad a cheannach, aosaigh a bhfuil teastas neamhlitearthachta acu.
Tá mo chuid dánta á gcosaint ag Amnesty International ach má mheabhraíonn tú é sin dóibh ní chloisfidh tú uathu ach gáire bréagach.
Tá mo chuid dánta á lorg ag Interpol.
Tá lorg mo chuid dánta á leanúint ag an FBI.
Nílimse cosúil le mo chuid dánta in aon chor.

Jerry Pinto

Teanga Dhúchais

Faoi mar a fhilleann seangáin

ar an nead,
an cnagaire adhmaid
ar an gcoill,
agus na heitleáin ar an aerfort
ceann i ndiaidh a chéile,
a gcuid sciathán á leathadh acu sa spéir dhearg

Ó, a theanga liom,
is ortsa a fhillimse
nuair is righin atá mo bhéal
ó bheith balbh,
is m'anam ag fulaingt.

Kedarnath Singh

 

Haiku le Issa ón mbliain 1816

domsa amháin…
an ghealach mhór!
cumhracht na mbláthanna plumaí

.身一つに大な月よ梅がかよ

mi hitotsu ni ôkina tsuki yo ume ga ka yo

Graifítí an Lae

Dá mhéid dlíthe agus srianta atá ann

is ea is boichte a bheidh na daoine.

Dá ghéire iad a gcuid arm

is ea is mo trioblóid a bheidh sa tír.

An Bealach (Dao)

Ar nós go leor ainrialaithe a tháinig ina ndiaidh, féachann na Daoigh ar an gcruinne agus í ag síorathrú. Staid is ea an réaltacht, staid atá ina próiseas, níl aon ní daingean. Chomh maith leis sin, tá coincheap dialachtaiciúil acu: athrú mar idirghníomhú idir fórsaí atá in aghaidh a chéile. Gabhann fuinneamh gan stad idir dhá mhol, yin agus yang. Ag an am céanna, cuirtear béim ar aontacht an nádúir agus gach rud ag teacht le chéile ann. Tá an nádur neamhspleách agus neamhchruthaithe; ní gá cruthaitheoir comhfhiosach a shamhlú. Is dearcadh é seo a mheabhródh an fealsamh Gréagach Heraclitus duit gan trácht ar an gcur síos ar an gcruinne a thugann an fhisic nua-aimseartha dúinn. An éiceolaíocht shóisialta nua-aimseartha a chuireann béim ar aontacht san éagsúlacht, fás orgánach agus ord nádúrtha, is léargas breise í ar chruinneshamhail na nDaoch.

Josh

Rásaíocht ar an tSráid

 Tá Chevy seasca naoi agam le trí nócha sé
Cinn sorcóra is Hurst ar an urlár
Ag feitheamh anocht thíos sa chlós páirceála
Lasmuigh den Seven-Eleven ‘tá:
Mise ‘s mo chara Sonny thógamar í ón mbonn
Agus bíonn sé liom ó áit go háit
Is ar son an airgid é is sin a bhfuil ann
Is sin mar ‘bhíonn againne ó lá go lá.

Anocht, anocht tá an stráice i gceart
Is beidh pléascadh ann mar táimse faoi dháir
Tá an samhradh ann, gach ní i gceart
Le haghaidh rásaíocht’ ar an tsráid.

Bíonn an t-aicsean uainn gach uile lá
Is clúdaímidne an stát thoir thuaidh
Nuair a dhúntar an stráic’ ritear iad ar an tsráid
Ó na bóithríní tine is lú


Tá daoine a éiríonn as an rás
Is faigheann siad bás de réir a chéile gach lá
Daoine a dhéanann naoi go dtí a cúig
Roimh dóibh rásaíocht ar an tsráid

Anocht, anocht tá an stráice i gceart
Is beidh pléascadh ann mar táimse faoi dháir
Glaoigh os ard ar fud an domhain, bí ag rásaíocht ar an tsráid.

Do bhuaileas léi fadó ar an stráic’
I gCamaro bhí, leis an mboc ó L.A.
Shéideas an Camaro de mo dhroim is chuaigh mé féin is mo stór i gcéin
Ach féach na roic atá faoi shúile mo ghrá
Is caoineann go gcodlaíonn sí istoích’
Abhaile liom tá an tigh faoi smúit
Osnaíonn sí, Stóirín ‘bhfuil tú ceart go leor,
Ina suí sa phóirse i dtigh a daid
Na brionglóidí aici á ndó
Ag stánadh ar an oíche go deo
Na súile a deir gur fuath leo a bheith beo
Do na stróinséirí uile is d’aingil an luais
I dtír challánach seo na n-óg
Anocht me féin is mo stór, síos, chun na farraige síos
Ár lámha á ní, ó bhó.

An mótarbhealach sé tá geal
As ár mbealach, mister, fág an áit,
An samhradh ann, agus seo ár seal
Le haghaidh rásaíocht’ ar an tsráid.

"Racing In The Street"

I got a sixty-nine Chevy with a 396
Fuelie heads and a Hurst on the floor
She's waiting tonight down in the parking lot
Outside the Seven-Eleven store
Me and my partner Sonny built her straight out of scratch
And he rides with me from town to town
We only run for the money got no strings attached
We shut 'em up and then we shut 'em down

Tonight, tonight the strip's just right
I wanna blow 'em off in my first heat
Summer's here and the time is right
For racing in the street

We take all the action we can meet
And we cover all the north east state
When the strip shuts down we run 'em in the street
From the fire roads to the interstate
Some guys they just give up living
And start dying little by little, piece by piece
Some guys come home from work and wash up
And go racing in the street

Tonight, tonight the strip's just right
I wanna blow 'em all out of their seats
Calling out around the world, we're going racing in the street

I met her on the strip three years ago
In a Camaro with this dude from L.A.
I blew that Camaro off my back and drove that little girl away
But now there's wrinkles around my baby's eyes
And she cries herself to sleep at night
When I come home the house is dark
She sighs "Baby did you make it all right"
She sits on the porch of her daddy's house
But all her pretty dreams are torn
She stares off alone into the night
With the eyes of one who hates for just being born
For all the shut down strangers and hot rod angels
Rumbling through this promised land
Tonight my baby and me we're gonna ride to the sea
And wash these sins off our hands

Tonight tonight the highway's bright
Out of our way mister you best keep
'Cause summer's here and the time is right
For racing in the street

Domingos José Soares Rebelo (1873-1922)

Fia-Chailleach

Samhlaigh duine de na mná gránna sin
colainn chraptha, gialla tite,
srón chromógach mhíchumtha, fiacla ag gobadh amach,
braoithe fiata dlútha bána,

Dlaoithe fada giobacha suaracha
ag titim thar a guaillí cama,
lámha meata agus méara cranraithe,
míle splanc ag éalú as a dhá súil.

Sceitse den bháirseach lofa é sin
í á léiriú le gualach.
Arsa an duine stuama a d’fheicfeadh í, ‘A leithéid de bhrúid!’

An gnáthdhuine, beireann ar mhaide, gearrann fíor na croise air féin
is ar sé de mhonabhar: “Mo ghraidhin í! Bean téagartha!
Is treise í ná Rí Solamh!’

The Witch

Imagine one of those vile old women
 shrunken body, sunken jaws,
aquiline and ugly nose, jutting teeth,
thick, fierce and white eye-brows,

Long, shaggy and squalid tresses,
crowding over her bent shoulders,
shrunken hands and knotted fingers,
her eyes blaze out a thousand sparks.

This is the sketch of that vile shrew
delineated only in charcoal.
The serious man see her and exclaims “What a beast!”

The common man grabs a stick,
blesses himself and mutters “Hail! Such a tough woman!
More powerful than King Solomon!!!”

Slánú

(Chrom sé a cheann agus thug uaidh a spiorad, Eoin, 19:30)

A cheann cromtha, é ag foghlaim an bháis,
slán á rá aige den uair dheireanach
-    siombail den fhiúntas lonrach –
an Fáidh ardchéimiúil, Dia ina Dhuine.

Chrith an domhan ar a insí suaracha
 an duairceas ina bhrat anuas air,
eirmín ina néal
ó Gheitséamainí go Calvaire

Á! Uafás! Lá na barbarachta!
Muire ag geonaíl
i ndeireadh na feide: ‘Mo chreach!’
An taoiseach céid ag breathnú ar íobairt seo
an anama ghlé agus liúnn a choinsias os ard
‘Dar mo lámh, ní fhéadfadh éinne é a fhulaingt
ach Mac Dé féin.’

Redemption

(And he bowed his head and gave up his spirit. Jn., 19:30)
Head bowed, dying,
he had uttered his last goodbye,
 - a symbol of all that is worthy and radiant -
the eminent Prophet, the Man-God.

The earth shook on its mean hinges
gloom enveloped it like a shroud,
ermine turned to pall
from Gethsemane to Calvary!

Ah! Horror! What a barbaric moment!
Disconsolate, Mary
murmured between sobs: “O me!”
The centurion beheld the host of innocence
sacrificed, and with a hand over his conscience
cried out “Only the Son of God
can suffer so.”

(Almanach de Recreio, Nova Goa, edited by Carmo Caraciolo Coelho, 1893)

An tAinrialaí

Tigh tábhairne ainnis agus diabhal bocht
darbh ainm Tadeu ina shuí sa doras
oíche gheimhridh is é ag machnamh  . . .
cad air? . . .  cá bhfios.

Taobh leis bhí laindéar,
sháigh sé a lámh thanaí  ina phóca,
tharraing amach scian agus d’fhógair
‘Díoltas go deo!’ le fuarchúis an aindiachaí!

Agus chuir sé leis: ‘Obair gan mhaith í obair an bháicéara;
Triallfad ar ghiúistís na cathrach féachaint an gcabhródh sé liom
is cóisteoir a dhéanamh díom;

Mura ndéanfaidh, má dhéanann sé neamhshuim díom,
leis an laindéar agus leis an scian seo
Beidh marú is loisceadh ann anocht is go brách!’
 

The Anarchist

At the door of a miserable tavern
a poor devil named Tadeu
could be seen sitting, one winter night
pondering… who knows what?

By his side he had a lantern,
he thrust his bony hand into his pocket,
pulled out a knife, and “Eternal vengeance”
 he exclaimed with an atheist’s indifference!

Then he added “The work of a baker
is bad; I am going to find out if the municipal magistrate
will help me and make me his coachman;

if he does not, if he disregards me,
with this lantern, with this knife
I will cause fires and death without end!!!”


Almanaque Litterário, 1895. Bastora, Goa, edited by J. do R. Crisólogo Borges, 1894.

False Markets (Margaí Falsa)

An English translation by Gabriel Rosenstock of Margaí Falsa, a poem by the late Danny Sheehy.

This poem was published in his first volume of poems, Súil Seilge (Coiscéim 2008) and reprinted in Poetry Ireland Review (No. 122). It reveals a philosophy that can only be defined as the native anarchism of the Gael.
 

 False Markets

Never got it. Still don’t get it,
I’ll never get it,
don’t really want to get it;
Footsie, Iseq Overall Index, Dow Jones,
sell off of equities, financial centres,
stock market, shares, stock bonds,
the Irish market down three per cent,
trading, marketing, buying and selling
on the false markets of the world.
How can I get my head around it
when I see no one at all buying or selling,
nothing but spectres in silk suits
tussling and scrambling in a flurry.
How good is the fire and something to chew on.

Don’t know where Wall Street is
Hong Kong or Singapore
but there are places I know well:
Sliabh Bhaile an Chalaidh
and Portach an Fhearainn, An Leacain,
Newcastle, Sheffield, Dagenham of Ford fame
and the Middle East
because that’s where
I’ve always got
my turf and coal for the fire,
a fork and a knife
to deliver food to my mouth,
diesel and petrol
to keep the old jalopy on the road
as I travel from coast to coast.
How good is the fire and something to chew on.

What care I for Wall Street
without a spud or a scallion to its name.
Canary Wharf I heard of – who hasn’t –
where the IRA planted a bomb
splintering the minds of silken spectres.
How good is the fire and something to chew on.

What’s all this fuss about Dow Jones?
why such demand
for these ludicrous markets
not a loaf of bread to be got or a gallon of oil –
it’s all trickery, treachery and fear.
There’s some fairy goings on at work here
it seems to me! All stuck in their power game
by dint of dark magic, deception and gambling
on the folly of life’s damned stock.
It’s all jiggery-pokery, a play on words
as the air burns and the skies –
God’s own children ravished alive.
How good is the fire and something to chew on.

Forget world trade
let’s just live within our means,
give a helping hand to our neighbour in time of need,
Serve the local community and the meitheal.
Buy, sell and exchange as need demands
and bring home the bacon.
We have all we require
for a night’s sleep, health and contentment,
a glowing hearth, warmth . . . food.
How good is the fire and something to chew on.
 =============================

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Contemporary_anarchism

Jörg Heidenberger

Jörg Heidenberger
fiafraigh fiafraigh go dtí go dtite an masc: cé mé	ask keep asking until the mask falls off: who am I
	ρώτα συνέχεια μέχρι να πέσει η μάσκα: ποιος είμαι εγώ Leagan Gréigise: Sarah Thilykou

Krishnamurphy agus Ashtavakra

Ainmnigh duine amháin
(seachas tú fein)
a chonaic an solas
arsa na deisceabail, go himpíoch.
Ashtavakra, arsa Krishnamurphy, gan smaoineamh.

Conas is féidir a bheith ar nós Ashtavakra
an cheist atá acu go léir.


Líontar Krishnamurphy le hatrua.
Le bheith cosúil leis siúd, ar sé,
ní mór daoibh a bheith cam –
chomh cam le hadharc reithe!

Cam?
Baineadh siar go mór as na deisceabail.

Tagann sibh anseo le bhur gcolainn fhoirfe
agus sibh ag súil leis an solas?
Le bheith ar nós Ashtavakra
ní mór daoibh a bheith níos caime na corcscriú!

 

Krishnamurphy and Ashtavakra

Name one enlightened person
(apart from yourself)
the disciples ask, pleadingly.
Ashtavakra! says Krishnamurphy, without thinking.

How do we become like Ashtavakra?
The question on everyone’s lips.

Krishnamurphy is filled with compassion.
To be like him, he says,
you must be crooked –
as crooked as a ram’s horn!

Crooked?
The disciples are aghast.

You come here with your perfect bodies
and expect to be enlightened?
To be like Ashtavakra you must be
crookeder than a corkscrew!

A Ego Basctha ag Krishnamurphy

Tvuíteáil Krishnamurphy a chuid deisceabal:
Tá sé basctha agam!
Smidiriríní, a chairde ionúine!
Faic fágtha!

Fuair na meáin gaoth an fhocail
Is dhein cosán dearg go dtí a dhoras.

An fíor, a Krishnamurphy?
Tá d’ego basctha go hiomlán agat, an bhfuil?

D’fhéach Krishnamurphy orthu go nimhneach:
Nach bhfuil meas ar bith agaibh orm?!
Tugaigí Sri Sri Krishnamurphy-ji orm!
Sea, sea, sea: tá sé basctha agam!
Is d’at a ucht le bród.
 

Krishnamurphy Smashes His Ego

Krishnamurphy tweeted his disciples:
I have smashed it!
Smithereens, my beloved ones!
Nothing left!

The press got wind of it
And beat a path to his door.

Is it true, Krishnamurphy?
You have completely smashed the ego?

Krishnamurphy looked at them with disgust:
Have you no respect?!
Call me Sri Sri Krishnamurphy-ji!
Yes, yes, yes: I have smashed it!
His chest swelling with pride.

An pleidhce úd Koslowski arís!

‘Ar mo leabhar!’ arsa Koslowski, ‘blianta fada ó shin, bhuaileas le Huckleberry Finn’.
‘Ach,’ arsa duine éigin, ‘níl ann ach carachtar liteartha!’
‘Mo dhála féin,’ arsa Koslowski.

*****

‘Le cabhair ó mhaide a shiúlann tú anois?’ arsa cara leis agus deargiontas air.
‘Níl tú i gceart in aon chor,’ arsa Koslowski ar ais leis. ‘Ní hé go bhfuilimse ag siúl le cabhair ó mhaide; an maide atá ag siúl – le cabhair uaimse.’

Krishnamurphy - cúpla dán

Krishnamurphy ar an ragairne

Sin é an t-ochtú pionta IPA ólta agat!
A fhógraíonn deisceabal.
Nach bhfuil eagla ort go mbeadh cloigeann ort
maidin amárach?

Cloigeann, ab ea? Cloigeann?
An é sin atá á theagasc agam?
Níl aon bhaint ag an gcloigeann leis seo.
Baint dá laghad!
Ná bí ag smaoineamh ar an gcloigeann!
 

Krishnamurphy goes on the batter

That’s your eighth pint of pale Indian ale!
Exclaims a disciple.
Aren’t you afraid you’re going to have a head
in the morning?

A head, is it? A head?
Is this what I have been teaching you?
It has nothing at all to do with the head!
Nothing whatsoever!
Stop thinking of the head!
 

Ar Strae agus Aimsithe Arís

Dúirt U.G. Krishnamurti
‘Ná lean mise. Táimse ar strae . . .’
An bhfuil tusa ar strae leis? arsa deisceabal.

Freagraíonn Krishnamurphy:
An Ghaeilge ar Lost and Found Office
Ná Oifig na nEarraí Caillte
Tuigeann tú an méid sin.
Cén fáth nach bhfuil ‘Aimsithe‘ ann?

Nuair a bheidh an freagra ar eolas agat
Tar ar ais chugam
Mar ní thuigimse beag ná mór é.
 

Lost and Found

U.G. Krishnamurti said:
‘Don’t follow me. I’m lost . . .’
Are you lost as well? asks a disciple.

Krishnamurphy replies:
The Irish for a Lost and Found Office
Is Oifig na nEarraí Caillte
Meaning: Office of Lost Things
Why do they not include ‘Found’?

When you find the answer
Let me know
Because it’s a complete mystery to me.
 

Aigne an Mhoncaí

‘Cuireadh an aigne i gcomparáid le moncaí,
Nár cuireadh, a Mháistir?
Guagach de shíor
Ag léim ó chraobh go craobh  . . .’

‘Hoips! Is beag nár thit sé ansin!’
Gáire ó gach éinne.

‘Tá cathú orm! Do cheist?’

‘Conas aigne an mhoncaí a cheansú.’

‘Ceist neamhbhailí.
Níl aon mhoncaithe againn in Éirinn.
An chéad cheist eile?’              

 

Monkey Mind

‘The mind has been compared to a monkey,
Has it not, Master?
Ever restless
Jumping from branch to branch . . .’

‘Ooops! It nearly fell there!’ says Krishnamurphy.
Laughter all round.

‘I’m sorry! Your question?’

‘How to still the monkey mind’.

‘Not a valid question.
No monkeys in Ireland.
Next question?’
 

Tohi Mohi

Bímis ag cantaireacht! arsa K.:
Tohi Mohi, Mohi Tohi
Antar Kaisa
Tusa mise – mise Tusa
Cén difríocht atá eadrainn?
Sin é, dáiríre!
Cad eile atá ann?
Níl i ngach rud eile ach  . . .
Bímis ag cantaireacht!
Tohi Mohi, Mohi Tohi
Antar Kaisa
Tohi Mohi, Mohi Tohi
Antar Kaisa
Tohi Mohi, Mohi Tohi
Antar Kaisa
Tohi Mohi, Mohi Tohi

Tohi Mohi

Let’s chant! says K.:
Tohi Mohi, Mohi Tohi
Antar Kaisa
You are me – I am You
What’s the difference between us?
That’s it, really!
What eile is there?
Everything else is . . .
Let’s chant!
Tohi Mohi, Mohi Tohi
Antar Kaisa
Tohi Mohi, Mohi Tohi
Antar Kaisa
Tohi Mohi, Mohi Tohi
Antar Kaisa
Tohi Mohi, Mohi Tohi
Antar Kaisa
 

An Fhírinne Lom

après  Hafiz

'An bhféadfainn iasacht d'asal a fháil?'
arsa an chomharsa leis an gCaomhánach

a d'fhreagair: 'Tá cathú orm,
thugas uaim inné ar iasacht é.'

Díreach ansin, thosnaigh an t-asal ag grágaíl
sa scioból. Mheas an chomharsa

gur bréagnaithe a bhí an Caomhánach ag an asal
is ar sé, 'Cad é sin a chloisimse mar sin?'

Arsa an Caomhánach á fhreagairt: 'A chara,
cé a chreideann tú, mise nó an t-asal?'

Rafiq Kathwari

Lang Jinshan

Lang Jinshan
	nuair nach mbíonn ceist ann ná freagra… bile
	when there are no questions no answers… sacred tree
	δεν έχει ερωτήσεις ούτε απαντήσεις… ιερό δέντρο Sarah Thilykou a chuir i nGréigis

Tithe Sinseartha, Goa

(do Nina Caldeira)

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…

An Meisias

Bhí fhios aige
nach dtiocfadh sé go deo

mar sin féin, scaip sé ráflaí faoina theacht
chun go mbeadh dóchas ann.

Sudhannsu Firdaus

Gorm Dorcha

Rugadh mé chun bualadh leis an spéir
chun tumadh in airde sna néalta
m’ainm a fhógairt os ard san fhirmimint
an trócaire ina liú ar an ngaoth.
Bhíos mór le stoirmeacha toirní
is thugas guth do na geiceonna.
Sheasas gan gíocs asam ar feadh meandair
is deineadh díom an crann is ársa sa chruinne.
Thumas i dteannta na bpéisteanna talún
is shásaíos mo ghoile le cré.
Thug an Domhan é sin go léir agus tuilleadh
thar n-ais dom.
Níl ach aon ní amháin eile le déanamh agam
agus is é sin
dul ar ais arís san aigéan.  

Jessica Faleiro

Deep Blue

I was born to meet the sky
to dive upwards into clouds
to shout out my name from above
and howl mercy into the winds.
I befriended thunderstorms
and lent my voice to geckos.
I stood still for a moment
and became the world’s oldest tree.
I dove in with the earthworms
and sated my appetite on dirt.
The Earth gave me all of this back
and more.
I only have one more thing to do
and that is
to sink back into the ocean.

Jessica Faleiro

Newton

cén torann a dhéanann úll ag titim? masc mairbh Newton	what is the sound of an apple falling? Newton's death mask