Chun Scríbhneoireacht ar Pháipéar a dhéanamh marthanach, leáigh guma arabach in uisce agus cuir leis sin eabhardhubh – an-mheilte go deo – agus bí ag scríobh leat.
Ní ghlanfadh aigéid an scríbhneoireacht seo: dá mba mhaith leat í a chosaint ar ghal ó uisce te, is féidir an scríbhneoireacht a chlúdach le gealacán uibhe, léirghlanta.
Chun sean-Scríbhinnní atá beagnach millte a athnuachan, beirigh cnó-ghál i bhfíon, cuir spúinse ar maos sa leacht ansin, is cuimil ar línte na seanscríbhinne é: ar an mbealach sin beidh na litreacha - a bhí doléite geall leis – chomh húr is dá mbeidís nuascríofa.
Níl cuma rómhaith air ar seisean ar seisean tá droch-chuma air an-dona go deimhin ar sé chomhair mé dhá cheann is tríocha díobh ar scamhóg amháin sular éiríos as dúrtsa leis go raibh áthas orm nár mhaith liom fháil amach go raibh níos mó ann ná an méid sin an fear creidimh thú ar sé an raghfá ar do ghlúine i ngarrán foraoise agus ligean duit féin cabhair a lorg nuair a bhainfeá eas amach cáitheadh ag séideadh in aghaidh do ghnúise is do ghéag an stopfá agus tuiscint a lorg ag móimintí den saghas sin ní go fóill arsa mise ach tá rún agam tosnú inniu ar sé tá an-bhrón orm ar sé is trua nach bhfuil scéala eile agam duit áiméan arsa mise agus dúirt seisean rud éigin eile nár thuigeas agus nuair nach raibh fhios agam cad eile a dhéanfainn agus nuair nár theastaigh uaim go ndéarfadh sé arís é agus go mbeadh ormsa é a thuiscint i gceart d’fhéachas air sin uile ar feadh nóiméid is d’fhéach seisean ar ais agus is ansin a léimeas is chroitheas lámh leis an té a thug rud éigin dom nár thug aon neach eile ar an saol seo riamh dom seans gur ghabhas buíochas leis fiú tá an nós chomh seanbhunaithe.
What the Doctor Said by Raymond Carver
He said it doesn’t look good he said it looks bad in fact real bad he said I counted thirty-two of them on one lung before I quit counting them I said I’m glad I wouldn’t want to know about any more being there than that he said are you a religious man do you kneel down in forest groves and let yourself ask for help when you come to a waterfall mist blowing against your face and arms do you stop and ask for understanding at those moments I said not yet but I intend to start today he said I’m real sorry he said I wish I had some other kind of news to give you I said Amen and he said something else I didn’t catch and not knowing what else to do and not wanting him to have to repeat it and me to have to fully digest it I just looked at him for a minute and he looked back it was then I jumped up and shook hands with this man who’d just given me something no one else on earth had ever given me I may have even thanked him habit being so strong
Nuair ’tháinig siad air sa ghairdín, arbh eol dóibh? Nuair ’tháinig siad air sa ghairdín, arbh eol dóibh? Arbh eol dóibh gurbh é Mac Dé É, gurbh é a dTiarna É Nuair a dúirt Sé féin le Peadar a chlaíomh a chur ’leataobh. Nuair ’tháinig siad air sa ghairdín, arbh eol dóibh? Nuair ’tháinig siad air sa ghairdín, arbh eol dóibh?
Nuair a labhair Sé leo insan gcathair, ‘chuala siad? Nuair a labhair Sé leo insan gcathair, ‘chuala siad? Niocadaemas sheachain sé na sluaite is tháinig istoích’ Á rá, “’Mháistir, cén fáth is gá bheith saolaithe arís?” Nuair a labhair Sé leo insan gcathair, ‘chuala siad? Nuair a labhair Sé leo insan gcathair, ‘chuala siad?
Nuair a leigheas Sé daill is bacaigh, ‘bhfaca siad Nuair a leigheas Sé daill is bacaigh, ‘bhfaca siad Nuair a dúirt, “Tuige mé a cháineadh, tóg do shráideog is siúil, Rud a dhéanfadh m’Athair, dhéanfainnse gan dua” Nuair a leigheas Sé daill is bacaigh, ‘bhfaca siad Nuair a leigheas Sé daill is bacaigh, ‘bhfaca siad?
Ar labhair siad ina choinne, ’leomhfaidís? Ar labhair siad ina choinne, ’leomhfaidís? Theastaigh ón slua go mbeadh Sé ina rí, ar a chloigeann bheadh coróin Cén fáth ar imigh Sé le bheith i bhfad ón gcóip? Ar labhair siad ina choinne, ’leomhfaidís? Ar labhair siad ina choinne, ’leomhfaidís?
Nuair d’éirigh Sé ón mbás, ar chreid siad é? Nuair d’éirigh Sé ón mbás, ar chreid siad é? Ar Sé, “Tá gach údarás tugtha Domsa ar neamh ’ is ar talamh Ar thuigeadar láithreach bonn É le bheith neamhbhalbh? Nuair d’éirigh Sé ón mbás, ar chreid siad é? Nuair d’éirigh Sé ón mbás, ar chreid siad é?
IN THE GARDEN
When they came for Him in the garden, did they know? When they came for Him in the garden, did they know? Did they know He was the Son of God, did they know that He was Lord? Did they hear when He told Peter, “Peter, put up your sword”? When they came for Him in the garden, did they know? When they came for Him in the garden, did they know?
When He spoke to them in the city, did they hear? When He spoke to them in the city, did they hear? Nicodemus came at night so he wouldn’t be seen by men Saying, “Master, tell me why a man must be born again” When He spoke to them in the city, did they hear? When He spoke to them in the city, did they hear?
When He healed the blind and crippled, did they see? When He healed the blind and crippled, did they see? When He said, “Pick up your bed and walk, why must you criticize? Same thing My Father do, I can do likewise” When He healed the blind and crippled, did they see? When He healed the blind and crippled, did they see?
Did they speak out against Him, did they dare? Did they speak out against Him, did they dare? The multitude wanted to make Him king, put a crown upon His head Why did He slip away to a quiet place instead? Did they speak out against Him, did they dare? Did they speak out against Him, did they dare?
When He rose from the dead, did they believe? When He rose from the dead, did they believe? He said, “All power is given to Me in heaven and on earth” Did they know right then and there what the power was worth? When He rose from the dead, did they believe? When He rose from the dead, did they believe?
Cé a scríobhfadh dán ag moladh an chaipitleachais? Sin í an cheist a ardaíonn John Curl thar ceann a chomh-eagarthóirí sa duanaire ilteangach Overthrowing Capitalism (Iml. 4), foilsithe ag an Revolutionary Poets Brigade agus Kallatumba Press.
Deir Curl gur tháinig an caipitleachas in áit an fheodachais agus na monarcachta agus b’fhacthas do dhaoine áirithe ag an am go mbeadh deireadh le cos ar bolg ach ní raibh sa chóras nua, a deir sé, ach slí eile chun struchtúr a thabhairt don éagóir shóisialta.
Sa lá ata inniu ann, a deir Curl, is é atá sa chaipitleachas ná córas domhanda chun dúshaothrú a dhéanamh ar a bhfuil d’acmhainní nádúrtha agus daonna ann ar mhaithe le maoin phríobháidithe a chruthú do na bodaigh mhóra atá i gceannas ar an gcruinne.
Abair é sin le daoine áirithe agus déarfaidh siad leat, ‘Bodaigh mhóra? Cé na bodaigh mhóra? Ná habair go ngéilleann tú do theoiricí comhcheilge?’ Géillim gan amhras. Go leor de na bodaigh mhóra ní chífeá in aon chor iad. Táid i bhfolach. Agus cúis mhaith acu!
Cé a scríobhfadh dán ar son an chórais sin ach turcaí éigin a vótálfadh ar son na Nollag. Seans go bhfuil cúpla turcaí i measc fhilí Gaeilge agus Béarla na tíre seo. Conas d’aithneofá iad? Féachann siad agus fuaimníonn siad beagán mar seo:
Buailimse le daoine áirithe ó am go chéile agus aontaíonn siad le tráchtas Curl thuas agus tá siad ar buile toisc go bhfuil an domhan seo scriosta ag na bodaigh mhóra thuasluaite ach deir siad, ‘Cad is féidir a dhéanamh? Tá buaite acu orainn.’ Bhuel, ní chreideann éinne a bhfuil saothar leis sa tsraith duanairí Overthrowing Capitalism go bhfuil an cath caillte ar fad. A mhalairt. Feiceann siad comharthaí soiléire gach áit go bhfuil deireadh ré ag druidim linn – ar ndóigh, tagann deireadh le gach ré.
Tá Teamhair ina féar agus féach an Traí mar atá.
An bealach chun an caipitleachas a chloí, dar le Curl agus a chairde, ná gabháil thar an gcaipitleachas, roghanna eile a shamhlú, modhanna eile, comhfhios réabhlóideach agus institiúidí réabhlóideacha a thógáil. Agus ná ceap nach bhfuil ról ag an bhfile san obair seo mar obair chultúrtha is ea é comhfhios a ardú agus dóchas a thabhairt do dhaoine. Cad eile a bhí ar siúl ag filí na hAislinge ach an pobal a mhúscailt agus saol eile seachas daorbhroid a shamhlú? Tá dán anseo ag an bhfile Iaránach Mahnaz Badihian
Is san Fhairsis a scríobhadh an bundán agus té sé sa díolaim seo faoina theideal Béarla Like Never Before:
Dúirt mé leat nach féidir díreach cúl a thabhairt don ainnise agus don fhearg. Tá siad os ár gcomhair amach ar na sráideanna, gar dár gcroí, go domhain sa stair.
Ní féidir cúl a thabhairt dáiríre don radharc sin, fir is mná ina gcodladh ar asfalt fuar oícheanta fuara in San Francisco, Tehran agus . . .
Dúirt mé leat go ngoilleann sé orm go bhfuil dul chun cinn déanta i ngach aon ní seachas sa daonnacht, agus a fhios againn nach raibh riamh an oiread sin teifeach ann i stair an chine dhaonna. Fhios againn go bhfuil teaghlaigh ann ina milliúin agus clann óg orthu Is gan aon áit acu is féidir baile a thabhairt air, gan bhia, gan dóchas, gan todhchaí . . .
D’fhéach tú ar mo shúile dorcha agus dúirt: ‘Nach maith go bhfuil croí ionat a bhraitheann léan an duine eile! Súile agat ar léir dóibh Arraing an duine eile.’
Dúirt mé leat go bhfuil mo chroí ag éirí trom lá i ndiaidh lae nuair a chloisim faoi thíortha atá scriosta ag cogadh, ag ocras, fiú i Meiriceá féin, tír a chaitheann na billiúin ar airm tír ina gceannaíonn Beyoncé teach is fiú 54 milliún dollar!
Mar tá dlíthe nua ann anois in aghaidh iarrthóirí tearmainn teaghlaigh a ndiúltaítear víosa dóibh á seoladh ar ais chuig campaí teifeach chun bás a fháil!
Conas is féidir anáil a tharraingt agus mo chroí chomh trom sin, croí atá ag béicíl: DEIREADH LE SAINT! DEIREADH LEIS AN gCAIPITLEACHAS!
Beyoncé
Níl ansin ach sampla beag den saghas filíochta agus reitrice atá sa leabhar seo nach don bhord caife é agus críochnóidh mé le dán de chuid Joj Kastra, nó Georges Castera, sa Háitis:
Konsey
Si-w gen on miray devon-ou, poze-l tout kalte kesyon dwol. Si-l reponn, kraze-l!
Comhairle
Má tá falla os do chomhair amach, cuir ceisteanna aite de gach saghas air. Mura dtugann sé freagra ort leag é!
Focail dhíomhaoine á rá ag an aigne cham Cloí le geallúintí aite, iad ag éag in am, Gan a bheith in ann an rud fónta a aithint ón smál Ó, tá mé cráite, tá mé cráite Níl sólás ar bith le fáil.
’Chorpáin, ’chorpáin Bhfuil tú chun éirí? D’aigne ar strae Dusta id’ shúile cinn
Tá tú gafa ag Sátan fós, neadaíonn éanlaith i do ghruaig An bhfuil creideamh ar bith id’ chroí? An bhfuil grá ar bith agat dúinn? An chuma ’tá ar do cheann, Dia á mhallú ’gat gach lá Ó, tá mé cráite, tá mé cráite Cad tá agat á rá?
’Chorpáin, ’chorpáin Bhfuil tú chun éirí? D’aigne ar strae Dusta id’ shúile cinn
An mhealltacht is an ghlóir-réim is an pheaca-pholaitíocht An geiteo sin a thóg tú dom, sé an geiteo sin do ríocht Rásaíocht an innill sin ’rialaíonn in aghaidh do chroí Ó, tá mé cráite, tá mé cráite Ligint ort gur cliste ataoi.
’Chorpáin, ’chorpáin Bhfuil tú chun éirí? D’aigne ar strae Dusta id’ shúile cinn
Cad tá agat ansin chun mé a chloí, an teagasc nó gunnán? Mo dhroim leis an bhfalla cheana tá, teitheadh cén áit? Tá tuxedo ’gat á chaitheamh, é maisithe le bláth Ó, tá mé cráite, tá mé cráite Go leac na bpian linn faoi do lámh.
’Chorpáin, ’chorpáin Bhfuil tú chun éirí? D’aigne ar strae Dusta id’ shúile cinn
DEAD MAN, DEAD MAN
Uttering idle words from a reprobate mind Clinging to strange promises, dying on the vine Never bein’ able to separate the good from the bad Ooh, I can’t stand it, I can’t stand it It’s makin’ me feel so sad
Dead man, dead man When will you arise? Cobwebs in your mind Dust upon your eyes
Satan got you by the heel, there’s a bird’s nest in your hair Do you have any faith at all? Do you have any love to share? The way that you hold your head, cursin’ God with every move Ooh, I can’t stand it, I can’t stand it What are you tryin’ to prove?
Dead man, dead man When will you arise? Cobwebs in your mind Dust upon your eyes
The glamour and the bright lights and the politics of sin The ghetto that you build for me is the one you end up in The race of the engine that overrules your heart Ooh, I can’t stand it, I can’t stand it Pretending that you’re so smart
Dead man, dead man When will you arise? Cobwebs in your mind Dust upon your eyes
What are you tryin’ to overpower me with, the doctrine or the gun? My back is already to the wall, where can I run? The tuxedo that you’re wearin’, the flower in your lapel Ooh, I can’t stand it, I can’t stand it You wanna take me down to hell
Dead man, dead man When will you arise? Cobwebs in your mind Dust upon your eyes
Rugadh an tAthair Sylvester Malone, cara le Conradh na Gaeilge.
Cailleadh John McNamara, bailitheoir lámhscríbhinní.
Rugadh Mícheál Caomhánach faoina ndúradh
‘His interest in Irish literature and mythology, and his knowledge of the Irish language itself, combined with a real writing talent, his devotion to translation, and an ability to compose verse, mark him out as a literateur, a man of letters. Though he wrote in English, the literary tradition to which he belongs is firmly an Irish one’
Sa bhliain 1822 d'fhoilsigh an tAthair John McEnroe eagrán nua den Teagasc Críostaí le Andrew Donlevy agus scríobh sa réamhrá
'The Irish language is venerable for its antiquity, and valuable for the many literary documents it contains; in harmony of sound it is inferior to no language, to many it is superior in strength of expression. Laudable and effective efforts have been made of late to restore the Irish to its antient degree on the scale of learned languages . . .'
Sa bhliain chéanna chum Issa an haiku seo i measc scata eile:
Léamh stáitse ar dhráma úrnua i nGaeilge sa Halla Cóisire, Smock Alley, Céadaoin 29 Samhain @6.30
Rehearsed reading of brand new play in Irish at The Banquet Hall, Smock Alley, Wed Nov 29th @ 6.30pm
Tugtar caoinchuireadh duit leis seo go dtí léamh stáitse ar An Doras a dhruid an Pápa - dráma nuascríofa le Biddy Jenkinson, file agus drámadóir nótáilte - sa Halla Cóisire, Smock Alley, ar an gCéadaoin 29 Samhain. Sa chliar tá Bláthnaid Ní Chofaigh, Máire Ní Ghráinne agus Donncha Crowley. Tristan Rosenstock an stiúrthóir.
Beidh scailtín fíona agus scroid ar fáil ar 6pm agus ansin léifear Gníomh 1 den dráma ar 6.30 pm, léamh a leanfaidh thart ar 30 nóiméad.
I nGaeilge a bheidh an seó agus beidh fortheidil Bhéarla ann. Beidh fáilte romhat fanacht linn ina dhiaidh agus an dráma a phlé agus d'fhéadfadh an plé sin a bheith ina chabhair dúinn nuair a dhéanfar lánléiriú ar an dráma an bhliain seo chugainn.
LEABHARLANN NA bhFUAIMEANNA CAILLTE NÓ IAD AG DUL I LÉIG
Cleatar sean-chlóscríobháin láimhe;cnagarnach statach agus teilifíseán á dhúiseacht; bús gutháin á dhiailiú; daoine ag feadaíl; barr buidéil alúmanaim ag cnagaireacht; crónán ón bhflóta bainne - níl ansin ach cuid de na fuaimeanna atá ag dul i léig. Sa tionscadal léifidh ceathrar filí - Marcus MacConghail, Doireann Ní Ghríofa, Proinsias Mac A' Bhaird agus Máire Dinny Wren dánta nua mar gheall ar fhuaimeanna nach gcloistear níos mó agus cloisfear fuaimrian ón gceoltóir agus dealbhóir fuaime Fergus Kelly.
THE LIBRARY OF LOST AND VANISHING SOUNDS
The clatter of an old manual typewriter; the crackle of static as a television comes on; the whirr of a phone dial; people whistling; the crinkle of an aluminium bottle top; the hum of an electric milk float - these are just some of the sounds that are becoming part of the past. Tonight four poets - Marcus MacConghail, Doireann Ní Ghríofa, Proinsias Mac A' Bhaird and Máire Dinny Wren - will read new poems on the theme of lost sounds, to a sound-track created by musician and sound sculptor Fergus Kelly.
Táim ag brú ar aghaidh Sea ag brú ar aghaidh Táim ag brú ar aghaidh 'Dtí an ghairm ó mo Thiarna ard.
Tugadh faoi mo stopadh, mé ’chroitheadh lena mbuairt: “Hé, cruthaigh gurb é ’n Tiarna é, tá comhartha uaim” Cén comhartha atá uait, is istigh tá ’n uile ní, Tá an chaora sa chró, is níl aon ghá le himní.
Táim ag brú ar aghaidh Sea ag brú ar aghaidh Táim ag brú ar aghaidh 'Dtí an ghairm ó mo Thiarna ard.
Croith an dusta ded’ chos, ná féach siar Níl aon ní a cheanglódh thú, roinneadh ort do sciar, An cathú ní haon dóithín é, b’é Ádhamh a thug don diabhal an svae Pheacaigh sé níl aon rogha agam, sé mo nádúr é.
Táim ag brú ar aghaidh Sea ag brú ar aghaidh Táim ag brú ar aghaidh 'Dtí an ghairm ó mo Thiarna ard.
PRESSING ON
Well I’m pressing on Yes, I’m pressing on Well I’m pressing on To the higher calling of my Lord
Many try to stop me, shake me up in my mind Say, “Prove to me that He is Lord, show me a sign” What kind of sign they need when it all come from within When what’s lost has been found, what’s to come has already been?
Well I’m pressing on Yes, I’m pressing on Well I’m pressing on To the higher calling of my Lord
Shake the dust off of your feet, don’t look back Nothing now can hold you down, nothing that you lack Temptation’s not an easy thing, Adam given the devil reign Because he sinned I got no choice, it run in my vein
Well I’m pressing on Yes, I’m pressing on Well I’m pressing on To the higher calling of my Lord
Uaireanta bíonn goimh orm is déistin Cad sa diabhal atá ag tarlú do mo chompánaigh Bhfuil siad slán nó fós ar strae Nó an eol dóibh an praghas a ísleodh a svae A gcuid prionsabal saolta a mbeidh orthu iad a fhágáil Tá traein mhall, tá traein mhall ag teacht chugainn gan mhoill.
Bhí bean agamsa thíos in Alabama B’as an iargúil di siúd, ach bhí bonn lenár gcaidreamh Ar sí, “Hé, gan aon agó Cuir cruth ort féinig agus dea-chló, Gheofá bás anseo, is ní bheadh ionat ach cuid den staidreamh” Tá traein mhall, tá traein mhall ag teacht chugainn gan mhoill.
Ola ón gcoigríoch,’tá i gceannas ar an tír seo Féach timpeall ort, is cinnte go mbraitheann tú náire, An síc ina rí ochón Na seoda is na fáinní sróin’ Todhchaí ár dtíre á beartú ’cu in Amstardam is i bPáras Tá traein mhall, tá traein mhall ag teacht chugainn gan mhoill.
Tá ár n-ego neamhleáite, ár ndlíthe as dáta, ní bhaineann linn níos mó Ní féidir seasamh thart ag feitheamh agus i ngátar I dtír seo na mbua Jefferson ag iompú ina uaigh Buaileam sciath na ngamal a láimhseálfadh, mar dhea, Sátan Tá traein mhall, tá traein mhall ag teacht chugainn gan mhoill.
An teagmhálaí mór le rá, an bréag-lia, fuathaitheoir mná Máistir cur i gcéill is an máistir atá praiticiúil Ach an namhaid dom is léir Caitheann seisean fallaing ghlé Na díchreidmhigh, na gadaithe ag caint in ainm an reiligiúin Is tá traein mhall, tá traein mhall ag teacht chugainn gan mhoill.
Ocras is tart ar a lán, is pléascann an t-ardaitheoir gráin, Ó, cé gur costasaí an bia a stóráil ná é a bhronnadh Deir siad linn gan a bheith cúthail Do chuid aislingí ’leanúint Tá caint ar ghrá a bheith againn dá chéile, taispeáin dom an duine atá sona, Tá traein mhall, tá traein mhall ag teacht chugainn gan mhoill.
Bhuel, go hIllinois do chuaigh mo bháb, leis an mbuachaill atá sí chun a chrá Duine gan dóchas, ach ní raibh aon leigheas agamsa ar an scéal Is cuma liomsa faoin eacnamaíocht Is cuma liomsa faoin réalteolaíocht Ach cuireann sé isteach orm an dream is ionúin liom bheith ’na bpuipéad Tá traein mhall, tá traein mhall ag teacht chugainn gan mhoill.
SLOW TRAIN
Sometimes I feel so low-down and disgusted Can’t help but wonder what’s happenin’ to my companions Are they lost or are they found Have they counted the cost it’ll take to bring down All their earthly principles they’re gonna have to abandon? There’s a slow, slow train comin’ up around the bend
I had a woman down in Alabama She was a backwoods girl, but she sure was realistic She said, “Boy, without a doubt Have to quit your mess and straighten out You could die down here, be just another accident statistic” There’s a slow, slow train comin’ up around the bend
All that foreign oil controlling American soil Look around you, it’s just bound to make you embarrassed Sheiks walkin’ around like kings Wearing fancy jewels and nose rings Deciding America’s future from Amsterdam and to Paris And there’s a slow, slow train comin’ up around the bend
Man’s ego is inflated, his laws are outdated, they don’t apply no more You can’t rely no more to be standin’ around waitin' In the home of the brave Jefferson turnin’ over in his grave Fools glorifying themselves, trying to manipulate Satan And there’s a slow, slow train comin’ up around the bend
Big-time negotiators, false healers and woman haters Masters of the bluff and masters of the proposition But the enemy I see Wears a cloak of decency All nonbelievers and men stealers talkin’ in the name of religion And there’s a slow, slow train comin’ up around the bend
People starving and thirsting, grain elevators are bursting Oh, you know it costs more to store the food than it do to give it They say lose your inhibitions Follow your own ambitions They talk about a life of brotherly love show me someone who knows how to live it There’s a slow, slow train comin’ up around the bend
Well, my baby went to Illinois with some bad-talkin’ boy she could destroy A real suicide case, but there was nothin’ I could do to stop it I don’t care about economy I don’t care about astronomy But it sure do bother me to see my loved ones turning into puppets There’s a slow, slow train comin’ up around the bend
Tabhair dom instealladh grá, tabhair dom instealladh grá
Níl instealladh hearóin uaim mar leigheas ar m’aicíd Níl instealladh tuirpintín uaim, ar mo ghlúine ag impí, Níl instealladh cóidín uaim chun go ndéanfainn aithrí Níl instealladh fuisce uaim, le bheith im’ Mhichael D.
Tabhair dom instealladh grá, tabhair dom instealladh grá
‘Dhochtúir, bhfuil tú ’g éisteacht? Teastaíonn roinnt Medicaid Chonac ríochtaí seo an domhain, is tá eagla orm, mo léir Níl aon phianta orm, ach maróidh sé mé dar Donn Mar an slua úd lean Íosa, nuair a chuireadar praghas ar a cheann.
Tabhair dom instealladh grá, tabhair dom instealladh grá
Níl uaimse aon ailibí nuair a chaithim am led’ thaobh Tá na ráflaí cloiste agam, gach ráfla acu saobh Ná taispeáin aon scannán dom, ná tabhair aon leabhar dom le léamh Ní shásódh sé sin an phian istigh, ná ní ghearrfadh sé an téad.
Tabhair dom instealladh grá, tabhair dom instealladh grá
Cén fáth a dteastódh uaim tú ‘mharú Dhein tú m’athairse a mharú, is banéigniú, Tatú ar mo leanaí ón nimh id’ pheann Níl im’ Dhia ná im’ chairde ach greann.
Tabhair dom instealladh grá, tabhair dom instealladh grá
Ní mian liom a bheith le héinne anocht Veronica amuigh, Mavis, cailín bocht Tá neach ar gráin leis mé, tá sé gar dom, mear mín An ceart dom díreach suí siar go dtaga sé aniar?
Tabhair dom instealladh grá, tabhair dom instealladh grá
Cad tá ar an ngaoth ag séideadh anocht? Níl fonn orm dul trasna na sráide is tá an gluaisteán as a riocht Glaoch fóin, tá gach éinne tar éis bogadh is léir Mo choinsias ag cur as dom, tá, ón oíche aréir.
Tabhair dom instealladh grá, tabhair dom instealladh grá
Tabhair dom instealladh grá, tabhair dom instealladh grá Más dochtúir tusa, tabhair dom instealladh grá.
SHOT OF LOVE
I need a shot of love, I need a shot of love
Don’t need a shot of heroin to kill my disease Don’t need a shot of turpentine, only bring me to my knees Don’t need a shot of codeine to help me to repent Don’t need a shot of whiskey, help me be president
I need a shot of love, I need a shot of love
Doctor, can you hear me? I need some Medicaid I seen the kingdoms of the world and it’s makin’ me feel afraid What I got ain’t painful, it’s just bound to kill me dead Like the men that followed Jesus when they put a price upon His head
I need a shot of love, I need a shot of love
I don’t need no alibi when I’m spending time with you I’ve heard all of them rumors and you have heard ’em too Don’t show me no picture show or give me no book to read It don’t satisfy the hurt inside nor the habit that it feeds
I need a shot of love, I need a shot of love
Why would I want to take your life? You’ve only murdered my father, raped his wife Tattooed my babies with a poison pen Mocked my God, humiliated my friends
I need a shot of love, I need a shot of love
Don’t wanna be with nobody tonight Veronica's not here, Mavis just ain’t right There’s a man that hates me and he’s swift, smooth and near Am I supposed to set back and wait until he’s here?
I need a shot of love, I need a shot of love
What makes the wind wanna blow tonight? Don’t even feel like crossing the street and my car ain’t actin’ right Called home, everybody seemed to have moved away My conscience is beginning to bother me today
I need a shot of love, I need a shot of love
I need a shot of love, I need a shot of love If you’re a doctor, I need a shot of love
Buail na cloig, a bhodaigh Ó chathair úd na néal Buail na cloig ó na tearmainn Thar na gleanntáin go réidh Táid leathan táid domhain Is an saol bun os cionn Is an t-am ag rith ar gcúl An bhrídeog leis is trua.
Buail na cloig, Naomh Peadar Áit a séideann gaoth Buail na cloig le do chrua-lámh Chun go dtuigfidh gach n-aon Ó tá ’na bhuaicthráth Sa bhaile, ar an má, Is tá fuineadh gréine i ndán Don bhó bheannaithe bhán.
Buail na cloig, a Mharta. Do mhac an bhochtáin Buail na cloig chun go gcloisfidh cách Aon Dia amháin Ó an t-aoire tá fá shuan An tsaileach faoi ghruaim Is tá caoirigh an tslé’ ’Dul amú.
Buail na cloig do na daill is bodhráin Buail na cloig dúinn go léir atá ar fán Buail na cloig do bheagán an áidh ’Thabharfaidh breith ar an gcóip nuair ’thagann an lá Buail na cloig, ar eite an t-am, Páiste ’ligeann glam, An neamhurchóid gann.
Buail na cloig, a Chaitríona Ó do sheomra gach lá Buail iad buail ón daingean Don lile ’tá faoi bhláth Línte – ‘’Dhia na bhFeart Trodaireacht lán de neart Is nil achar ann a thuilleadh ’dir ceart is mícheart.
Ring them bells
Ring them bells, ye heathen From the city that dreams Ring them bells from the sanctuaries ’Cross the valleys and streams For they’re deep and they’re wide And the world’s on its side And time is running backwards And so is the bride
Ring them bells St. Peter Where the four winds blow Ring them bells with an iron hand So the people will know Oh it’s rush hour now On the wheel and the plow And the sun is going down Upon the sacred cow
Ring them bells Sweet Martha For the poor man’s son Ring them bells so the world will know That God is one Oh the shepherd is asleep Where the willows weep And the mountains are filled With lost sheep
Ring them bells for the blind and the deaf Ring them bells for all of us who are left Ring them bells for the chosen few Who will judge the many when the game is through Ring them bells, for the time that flies For the child that cries When innocence dies
Ring them bells St. Catherine From the top of the room Ring them from the fortress For the lilies that bloom Oh the lines are long And the fighting is strong And they’re breaking down the distance Between right and wrong
‘Aingil dhílis, conas faoin ngréin Conas nár bhraitheas-sa tú le mo thaobh A léireodh dom mo dhaille, a léireodh mé ar strae Nach lag a bhí an bonn fúm is gan ach gaineamh fé?
Tá ‘na chogadh anama, fuil is feoil ‘briseadh síos Tá creideamh agat nó is neamhchreideamh é, ní bhaineann neodracht le Críost Is glic atá an namhaid, tá an dubh ‘rainn ina gheal An fhírinne ‘nár gcroí ach an creideamh ar ceal.
Doirt do léas, doirt do léas ar ball Doirt do léas, doirt do léas ar ball Doirt do léas, doirt do léas ar ball Ní fhéadfainn é a dhéanamh ‘s mé liom féin Ní léir dom mórán tá mé dall.
Tá mo chairde mar dhea faoi gheasa is léir Féachann siad orm caol díreach is ar siad, “Bhuel, sin é é” Agus samhlaigh an doircheacht atá anuas chugainn Nuair iarrfar an bás ar Dhia is nach ligfear dóibh dul san uaigh
‘Shiúirín, tharla aisling dom is inseoidh mé duit faoi Bhís ag tarraingt uisce do d’fhear céile, agus tú ag fulaingt faoin dlí Bhí tu ag insint dó faoin mBúda, is bhí tú ag insint dó faoi Mhachmad, d’aon anáil, Ach níor luaigh tú uair amháin an Té a tháinig is mar choirpeach fuair bás.
Doirt do léas, doirt do léas ar ball Doirt do léas, doirt do léas ar ball Doirt do léas, doirt do léas ar ball Ní fhéadfainn é a dhéanamh ‘s mé liom féin Ní léir dom mórán tá mé dall.
‘Aingil dhílis, níl aon amhras ort faoim’ scéal An rud a thug Dia dúinn, ní raghaidh sé i léig Táimid clúdaithe le fuil, agus ba dhaoir iad ár sinsir romhainn Agus trócaire orthu ina n-uaigh ochón.
Is tú ríon gheal mo cholainn’, is tú mo bhean, is tú mo shéan, Is tú lampa m’anama, san oíche ríméad Ach tá foréigean sna súile, ná mealltar sinn arís Ar ár mbealach ón Éigipt, is tríd an Aetóip, go halla breithiúnais Chríost.
Doirt do léas, doirt do léas ar ball Doirt do léas, doirt do léas ar ball Doirt do léas, doirt do léas ar ball Ní fhéadfainn é a dhéanamh ‘s mé liom féin Ní léir dom mórán tá mé dall.
Precious angel
Precious angel, under the sun How was I to know you’d be the one To show me I was blinded, to show me I was gone How weak was the foundation I was standing upon?
Now there’s spiritual warfare, flesh and blood breaking down Ya either got faith or ya got unbelief and there ain’t no neutral ground The enemy is subtle, how be it we are deceived When the truth’s in our hearts and we still don’t believe?
Shine your light, shine your light on me Shine your light, shine your light on me Shine your light, shine your light on me Ya know I just can’t make it by myself I’m a little too blind to see
My so-called friends have fallen under a spell They look me squarely in the eye and they say, “Well, all is well” And imagine the darkness that will fall from on high When men will beg God to kill them and they won’t be able to die
Sister, let me tell you about a vision I saw You were drawing water for your husband, you were suffering under the law You were telling him about Buddha, you were telling him about Mohammed in one breath You never mentioned one time the Man who came and died a criminal’s death
Shine your light, shine your light on me Shine your light, shine your light on me Shine your light, shine your light on me Ya know I just can’t make it by myself I’m a little too blind to see
Precious angel, you believe me when I say What God has given to us no man can take away We are covered in blood, girl, you know both our forefathers were slaves Let us hope they’ve found mercy in their bone-filled graves
You’re the queen of my flesh, girl, you’re my woman, you’re my delight You’re the lamp of my soul, girl, you torch up the night But there’s violence in the eyes, girl, so let us not be enticed On the way out of Egypt, through Ethiopia, to the judgment hall of Christ
Shine your light, shine your light on me Shine your light, shine your light on me Shine your light, shine your light on me Ya know I just can’t make it by myself I’m a little too blind to see
Tá a fhios ag an saol mór gur bronnadh an Duais Nobel ar son na Litríochta ar Bob Dylan. Is mian le IMRAM gné neamhghnách de chorpas Dylan a léiriú, an ceol gaspal. I measc na n-amhrán a chanfar beidh What Can I Do For You, aistrithe anseo ag Gabriel Rosenstock.
CAD AB ÁIL LEAT DÍOM?
Uaitse a fuaireas an uile ní Cad ab áil leat díom? Thugais domsa mo shúile cinn Cad ab áil leat díom?
Tarraingthe ón daoirse, dhein mé a athnuachan im’ chroí Shásaigh an t-ocras a bhí orm go síoraí D’oscail an doras nach ndúnfaidh éinn’ agus is leathan mar a bhí, Is roghnaigh Tú mé, an beagán atá íon, Cad ab áil leat díom?
Ar mo shonsa sea fuair Tú bás Cad ab áil leat díom? Is do mhínigh Tú an uile chás Cad ab áil leat díom?
Nuair a shaolaítear neach, sea bíonn na splancacha san aer, Is is saoi é dar leis féin agus bíonn air géilleadh don bhréag Cé a shábhálfadh é is teacht idir é is éag? Bhuel, dheinise é is níl aon ní fágtha dúinne le cur i gcrích Cad ab áil leat díom?
Thugais dúinne gach a bhfuil faoin ngréin Cad ab áil leat díom? Thugais domsa an bheatha féin Cad ab áil leat díom?
Tuigim gach aon ní faoi nimh, tuigim arraing mar bhíos i nguais Cuma liom an tslí bheith garbh, léirigh dom a tús Aon ní is áil leat féin, inis dom, a Rún Bhuel, níor thuilleas-sa é ach féach gur tháinig mé tríd Cad ab áil leat díom?
WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU?
You have given everything to me What can I do for You? You have given me eyes to see What can I do for You?
Pulled me out of bondage and You made me renewed inside Filled up a hunger that had always been denied Opened up a door no man can shut and You opened it up so wide And You’ve chosen me to be among the few What can I do for You?
You have laid down Your life for me What can I do for You? You have explained every mystery What can I do for You?
Soon as a man is born, you know the sparks begin to fly He gets wise in his own eyes and he’s made to believe a lie Who would deliver him from the death he’s bound to die? Well, You’ve done it all and there’s no more anyone can pretend to do What can I do for You?
You have given all there is to give What can I do for You? You have given me life to live How can I live for You?
I know all about poison, I know all about fiery darts I don’t care how rough the road is, show me where it starts Whatever pleases You, tell it to my heart Well, I don’t deserve it but I sure did make it through What can I do for You?
Tá triúr filí, duine acu i mBéarla agus an bheirt eile i nGaeilge, ag dul i ngleic le téama an tsneachta sa tionscadal seo. Duine acu is ea Mícheál Ó hAodha, údar an tsaothair Leabhar Dubh an tSneachta, cnuasach gearrdhánta ata ag ple le cuimhne, caillteanas agus sneachta. File agus ealaíontóir colláise í Helen Ivory, údar Waiting for Bluebeard agus The Breakfast Machine. Domhan suaite a léiríonn sí, dar le Penelope Shuttle, suaite ach meallacach mar sin féin, lán d'íoróin is míshuaimhneas. Léifidh Gabriel Rosenstock haiku leis an máistir Issa, ó cheantar an tsneachta Shinano sa tSeapáin, traschruthaithe i nGaeilge. Beidh íomhánna scáileáin againn ó Margaret Lonergan agus tionlacan ceoil ó Enda Reilly.
The Snow Project features three poets - two in Irish, one in English - exploring the theme of snow. Mícheál Ó hAodha has just recently published Leabhar Dubh an tSneachta, in which he explores themes of loss, memory and snow. Helen Ivory is a poet and collage artist, and the author of Waiting for Bluebeard and The Breakfast Machine. Penelope Shuttle has described her work as creating 'a troubled yet beguiling world rich in irony and disquiet'. Gabriel Rosenstock will read Irish transcreations of a selection of Japanese haiku on the theme of snow. Margaret Lonergan will create visuals, whilst the poets will read to musical accompaniment from Enda Reilly.
Cad a bhí ag titim amach sa bhliain 1813, seachas na gnáth-chogaí?
Rugadh an scríbhneoir Gearmánach Hebbel.
Rugadh an fealsamh Danmhargach Kierkegaard.
Rugadh Tomás Moriarty nó ‘Tomás an Éithigh’.
Rugadh an cumadóir ceoil Gearmánach Wagner.
Cailleadh Tecumseh, ceannaire Meirindiach.
Rugadh Verdi, cumadóir Iodálach.
Rugadh Büchner, scríbhneoir Gearmánach.
Rugadh Tomas Andrews, ceimiceoir Éireannach.
Cailleadh an sagart iontach Denis Taaffe faoina ndúradh an méid seo a leanas,
‘And after alternately engaging in scenes of the grossest sensuality and the most abject poverty his powers were exhausted, he became debilitated in mind and body and after an illness of three weeks died a great penitent in August 1813 in the 56th year of his age, a melancholy mix of energy and weakness, of genius and profligacy.’
Agus sa bhliain 1813, chum Issa an haiku seo, i measc a lán eile:
ionad scíthe an phiasúin an tráthnóna seo . . . scrín bheag
mano buddhi ahankara chittani naaham na cha shrotravjihve na cha ghraana netre na cha vyoma bhumir na tejo na vaayuhu chidananda rupah shivo'ham shivo'ham
Ní mé an aigne, an intleacht, an ego ná an chuimhne, Ní mé na cluasa, an craiceann, an tsrón ná na súile, Ní spás mé, ná talamh, ná tine, uisce ná gaoth: Foirm an chomhfheasa agus na lúcháire mé, Is mise Síve síoraí
na cha prana sangyo na vai pancha vayuhu na va sapta dhatur na va pancha koshah na vak pani-padam na chopastha payu chidananda rupah shivo'ham shivo'ham Ní anáil mé, ná na cúig dúile, Ní damhna mé, ná cúig thruaill an chomhfheasa Ná ní urlabhra mé, ná lámha, ná na cosa: Foirm an chomhfheasa agus na lúcháire mé, Is mise Síve síoraí
na me dvesha ragau na me lobha mohau na me vai mado naiva matsarya bhavaha na dharmo na chartho na kamo na mokshaha chidananda rupah shivo'ham shivo'ham
Ní bhaineann ‘is maith-ní maith’ liom, Ná saint ná seachrán, Ní bhaineann mórtas liom ná éad, Níl dualgas ar bith orm Ná dúil sa mhaoin, sa drúis ná sa tsaoirse: Foirm an chomhfheasa agus na lúcháire mé, Is mise Síve síoraí
na punyam na papam na saukhyam na duhkham na mantro na tirtham na veda na yajnah aham bhojanam naiva bhojyam na bhokta chidananda rupah shivo'ham shivo'ham
Gan suáilce, gan duáilce, gan phléisiúr, gan phian, Níl gá agam le mantra, le hoilithreacht, Le scrioptúr, le deasghnáth, Ní mé an t-eispéireas ná neach a raibh eispéireas aige: Foirm an chomhfheasa agus na lúcháire mé, Is mise Síve síoraí
na me mrtyu shanka na mejati bhedaha pita naiva me naiva mataa na janmaha na bandhur na mitram gurur naiva shishyaha chidananda rupah shivo'ham shivo'ham
Ní bhaineann eagla roimh bhás liom, Sainaicme ná creideamh ar bith, Níl athair agam ná máthair Mar nár rugadh riamh mé, Ní gaol le héinne mé, ná cara, Ní oide ná dalta mé: Foirm an chomhfheasa agus na lúcháire mé, Is mise Síve síoraí
aham nirvikalpo nirakara rupo vibhut vatcha sarvatra sarvendriyanam na cha sangatham naiva muktir na meyaha chidananda rupah shivo'ham shivo'ham Ní bhaineann déachas liom, éagruth é mo chruthsa, Mairim gach áit, ar fud na gcéadfaí uile, Níl ceangal orm, nílim saor ná i mo dhaor: Foirm an chomhfheasa agus na lúcháire mé, Is mise Síve síoraí
Ba ar an lá úd a tháinig do chloigíní bhráisléad murnáin Chugam agus a gcling bhog nach n-imeodh Amach as an dorchadas athartha Faoi bhun an chrainn bhainiain.
Thit ciúnas ar na coillte, Chroith na duilleoga is d’fhan gan chorraí Pé táimhe a bhí Ar na seamaidí féir Dhúisíodar go séimh.
Bhuail cloig an teampaill i gcéin Mhaolaigh ar ghlugarnach na habhann Ansin líon an dorchadas dlúth an t-aer Le cumhracht Tinte ealaíne na féile ag bláthú os ár gcionn Lasadh gach póir dínn Cuma rathúil ag teacht ar gach tuar Is comhartha is ba neamhghnách gach uile cheann acu.
Lúcháir an tsonais ag éirí chun na scornaí Arraing an bhróin ag sileadh ón tsúil Deineadh seoda díobh is thosnaigh ag lonrú Ba ansin tá a fhios agat Gan fhios dúinn a d’fhásamar ina chéile mar aon.
Inár seasamh ansin le chéile Agus caora bainiain anuas orainn Ina gcith Iompraíodh sinn go tír na n-iontas sa ré i gcéin Éilísiam, Tír na nÓg.
Níl aon chuid de sin fágtha inniu Tá mo shaol féin ag druidim chun deiridh Ach ina dhiaidh sin is uile, go tobann Cloisim na cloigíní bhráisléad murnáin.
Anois féin, braithim brúcht an ghrá A chuireann freanga mhilis orm Agus fiú anois dúisíonn an bhrionglóid mé.
Balakrishna Bhagwant Borkar
ANKLET BELLS
(Paijana)
It was on that day that your anklet bells With their soft, lingering jingle Came to me from the fathering darkness Under the banyan tree.
All the woods fell silent, The leaves quivered and stood still Over the blades of grass In their drowsiness There came a tender wakefulness.
Temple bells rang from afar The river’s gurgle became subdued The thickening darkness then Filled the air with fragrance Over us blossomed festive fireworks Each pore was set aflame Portents and omens all unusual Started appearing auspicious.
The bliss of happiness surging to the throat The pain of sorrow flowing from the eye Turned into gems and started sparkling It was then, you know That all unawares we two grew into one.
As we stood there together Exposed to the shower Of banyan berries raining over us We felt transported To the charming world of the far-off moon And the blissful field of Elysium.
Of all that, nothing remains today My life itself is drawing to its close Yet even now all of a sudden I keep on hearing your anklet bells.
Even now I feel the flush of love And a sweet shudder passes through me Even now my very dream becomes my wide awakening.
