 |
| Aleksandar Pavić |
ina gcodladh san fhoscadán
cailín agus bábóg
****
oíche gan suan –
gusta gaoithe
is sceamhaíl gadhair tríd
2018-02-28
Dhá Haiku le Aleksandar Pavić
ina gcodladh san fhoscadán
cailín agus bábóg
oíche gan suan –
gusta gaoithe
is sceamhaíl gadhair tríd
2018-02-27
Smaoineamh an Lae
Tá tasc ar leith ag na Cugasaigh, go háirithe na hAngla-Shacsanaigh. Murach a gcuid teicneolaíochta ní bheadh an duine beo sa lá atá inniu ann. Ach íocann siad praghas an-ard as an sárchumas sin . . . Seargann an seacra [chakra] croí agus tosaíonn ar bhás a fháil. Ní hamháin go gcailltear spéis sa réimse tarchéimnitheach, ní gá ach é a lua chun fearg agus naimhdeas a spreagadh: tá eagla an domhain ar Bhainisteoirí an Domhain roimh an spiorad díreach faoi mar a chuireann uisce sceimhle ar dhuine a bhfuil confadh air.
John Burdett, The Godfather of Kathmandu (Corgi 2010)
John Burdett, The Godfather of Kathmandu (Corgi 2010)
2018-02-26
Reilig Lán
Fógraíonn an nuachtán áitiúil go bhfuil Reilig Bhaile na nGabhar lán
Tagann Coiste Forbartha an Bhaile le chéile
Aontaíonn gach éinne gur éigeandáil atá ann
‘Cad faoin Reilig Phrotastúnach?’ arsa Leiftí
‘Níl éinne á húsáid níos mó –
Agus tá slí inti do chúpla céad eile ar a laghad!’
Is annamh a ghlactar le moltaí Leiftí
ní ghlactar leis an moladh seo ach oiread.
‘Cuirigí leis na Protastúnaigh mé,’ arsa Leiftí,
‘is cuma liom sa phoc.’
‘Seachain do theanga! Led’ thoil!’
arsa Bean de Lása-Uí Mhóráin
‘Seachain do chuid fleiscíní tusa!’
arsa Leiftí ar ais léi.
Sos tae.
I ndiaidh an tsosa:
‘Gnó é seo don Chomhairle Contae!
Táimid ag moladh do dhaoine
gan bás a fháil,’ arsa an Cathaoirleach
‘go dtí go réiteofar an ghéarchéim seo’.
Glactar leis an rún d’aon ghuth.
The local rag announces that Glengower Graveyard is full.
The Development Committee gets together
all agree it’s an emergency
‘What about the Protestant Cemetery?‘ says Lefty
‘Sure there’s no one usin’ it any more –
room for hundreds in it!’
Lefty’s motions are seldom carried
nor is this one
‘Ye can bury me with the Prods,’ says Lefty
‘I don’t give a flyin’ fiddler’s fuck!
‘Watch your language! Please!’
admonishes Mrs de Lacy-Moran
‘Watch your hyphens! says Lefty back at her.
Tea break.
After the break:
‘This is a matter for the County Council!
We’re recommending,’ says the Chairman
‘that people don’t die
until this crisis has been resolved.’
The motion is carried unanimously.
Tagann Coiste Forbartha an Bhaile le chéile
Aontaíonn gach éinne gur éigeandáil atá ann
‘Cad faoin Reilig Phrotastúnach?’ arsa Leiftí
‘Níl éinne á húsáid níos mó –
Agus tá slí inti do chúpla céad eile ar a laghad!’
Is annamh a ghlactar le moltaí Leiftí
ní ghlactar leis an moladh seo ach oiread.
‘Cuirigí leis na Protastúnaigh mé,’ arsa Leiftí,
‘is cuma liom sa phoc.’
‘Seachain do theanga! Led’ thoil!’
arsa Bean de Lása-Uí Mhóráin
‘Seachain do chuid fleiscíní tusa!’
arsa Leiftí ar ais léi.
Sos tae.
I ndiaidh an tsosa:
‘Gnó é seo don Chomhairle Contae!
Táimid ag moladh do dhaoine
gan bás a fháil,’ arsa an Cathaoirleach
‘go dtí go réiteofar an ghéarchéim seo’.
Glactar leis an rún d’aon ghuth.
Overcrowded Graveyard
The local rag announces that Glengower Graveyard is full.
The Development Committee gets together
all agree it’s an emergency
‘What about the Protestant Cemetery?‘ says Lefty
‘Sure there’s no one usin’ it any more –
room for hundreds in it!’
Lefty’s motions are seldom carried
nor is this one
‘Ye can bury me with the Prods,’ says Lefty
‘I don’t give a flyin’ fiddler’s fuck!
‘Watch your language! Please!’
admonishes Mrs de Lacy-Moran
‘Watch your hyphens! says Lefty back at her.
Tea break.
After the break:
‘This is a matter for the County Council!
We’re recommending,’ says the Chairman
‘that people don’t die
until this crisis has been resolved.’
The motion is carried unanimously.
2018-02-25
Antanas Sutkus
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na seanfhoinn ní éistear leo níos mó... níl na cluasa acu chuige |
old tunes no one listens to them anymore... they just don't have the ear |
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παλιά τραγούδια κανείς πια δεν τ' ακούει... δεν έχουν αυτί Leagan Gréigise: Sarah Thilykou | |||
2018-02-24
FRAGMENTED SOUL
The Moon on my Tongue:
An anthology of Māori Poetry in English
Edited by Reina Whaitiri, Robert Sullivan, Ben Styles
(Arc Publications 2017)
Who knew that Māori poetry has been written in English for over 120 years? Arc Publications are known for their translations and there are many readers who would have welcomed a volume of poems translated from the Māori in preference to this. Then again, as Māori novelist Keri Hulme, informs us:
The blackened word – how extraordinary!
Followers of rugby – a sport that was originally a tool of empire – will know little about Māori culture other than haka, the song of defiance sung before battle. Others might treasure a gentler note in such songs as Pokarekare ana (The Waves). My Irish-language free version of that haunting song is as follows:
Tobar Lán
Is suaite iad na huiscí
na huiscí sin Waipu
ach nuair a théann tusa sall
ciúnaítear iad, a rún
A stóirín bán
tar chugam ar ais
do chom, do bhrollach,
is do bhéilín tais
Tá mo litir agam scríofa
le go dtuigfidh do mhuintir
go bhfuilimse suaite
ó mhaidin go hoíche
Tá mo pheann gan bhrí
gan duilleog agam ná pár
ach tá tusa ionam:
maireann tú im lár
Grá buan daingean thugas duit
tobar lán nach raghaidh i ndísc
gach aon deoir atá ionam
go domhain sa tobar ritheann síos
Beautiful and tender as it is – Pokarekare ana was, in fact, a love letter to his second wife – the Māori author Paraire Tomoana was an Anglican and something of a war-monger! There are many recordings of his touching song:
A Mhuire Mháthair
A Mhuire Mháthair,
Sé seo mo ghuí
Go maire Íosa
Go deo im’ chroí
Curfá
Ave Maria, mo ghrá Ave,
Is tusa mo mháthair ’s máthair Dé.
A Mhuire Mháthair,
I rith mo shaoil
Bí liom mar dhídean
ar gach aon bhaol.
A Mhuire Mháthair
‘tá lán de ghrást’
Go raibh tú taobh liom
Ar uair mo bháis.
Why, some even claim that the original tune was not Māori at all but Irish or Scottish! Who knows? Anyway, of the two versions, I prefer the hymn.
***
The Moon on my Tongue is very evasive on the question of the bloody conflict between the two languages, Māori and English. In his Introduction, Ben Styles says: ‘Setting aside for the moment the terrible physical and political violence that followed this first encounter . . .’ When I come across the phrase ‘for the moment’, I expect the author to return to this vital subject, but no. It is dropped like a hot potato. Of course, the subject is often dropped in Ireland as well, as one might drop a blighted tuber.
This is an anthology of Māori Poetry in English and, as one might expect, it is peppered with Irish names, names such as Michael O’Leary, represented here with a poem called He Waiatanui Kia Aroha. Unglossed titles, words and phrases abound in this anthology as they do in some of our own macaronic compositions. Incidentally, by way of a very tiny footnote to literary history, New Zealand’s Michael O’Leary features in the English translation of my novella, Lacertidae, and a free PDF is available online if there’s any O’Leary out there who might be interested in tracking down a long-lost Māori relation!
If you are at all concerned for humanity, its past and future, The Moon on my Tongue will break your heart:
Take your hands from your ears
Hear their screams . . .
And sip our English Breakfast tea …
Are not Māori anymore
I don’t know what they are …
Fragmented, my soul lies here, there: in
The waste-wood, around …
Still, he has come, the white man
- has come, and has conquered
wiped from beneath us
that base we knew so well
so that it should exist no more
but be replaced, our glorious heritage
with muskets, fire and bricks
with industry, with progress
with 1966.
Readers of The Moon on my Tongue will want to know more about these poets, luminaries such as Hone Tuwhare (1922-2008) who spoke Māori as a child. Then his well-meaning father handed him the Bible in English and commanded the boy to read it back to him. One critic describes Tuwhare’s poetry as a ‘collision’ between the Bible and native Māori narratives. He couldn’t afford university, he gets a job, becomes interested in Marxism and in American writers – so different to the British, as he says – writers with a social conscience, Steinbeck, Hemingway, Dos Passos, Thomas Wolfe. Recordings of the poet reveal the shaman behind the socialist-activist. We need shamans as much as we need scientists today, to save our rivers and trees, to save our languages.
Tuwhare’s father was taught to view the Bible (yet another tool of empire!) as the word of God. Did not God (or the gods) speak through the creation myths of the Māori as well? I found one glorious example in a curious compendium called Nineteenth Century Miracles by E.H. Britten: it seems to me that the Māori text is as powerful and as beautiful as Genesis any day. So let’s sign off our musings with this memorable extract:
The Word became fruitful;
it dwelt with the feeble glimmering.
it brought forth night;
the great night, the long night.
Night, blackness, evermore;
the lowest night, the lofty night;
the thick night to be felt;
the night to be touched;
the night not yet to be seen;
the night of death, yet alive;
no eyes yet in the world.
 |
| Photo: The Hone Tuwhare Charitable Trust |
Edited by Reina Whaitiri, Robert Sullivan, Ben Styles
(Arc Publications 2017)
Who knew that Māori poetry has been written in English for over 120 years? Arc Publications are known for their translations and there are many readers who would have welcomed a volume of poems translated from the Māori in preference to this. Then again, as Māori novelist Keri Hulme, informs us:
‘Māori is a word-of-mouth language, it has only recently been turned to print, and a great deal of its mana and strength still lie outside the blackened word…’
Followers of rugby – a sport that was originally a tool of empire – will know little about Māori culture other than haka, the song of defiance sung before battle. Others might treasure a gentler note in such songs as Pokarekare ana (The Waves). My Irish-language free version of that haunting song is as follows:
Tobar Lán
Is suaite iad na huiscí
na huiscí sin Waipu
ach nuair a théann tusa sall
ciúnaítear iad, a rún
A stóirín bán
tar chugam ar ais
do chom, do bhrollach,
is do bhéilín tais
Tá mo litir agam scríofa
le go dtuigfidh do mhuintir
go bhfuilimse suaite
ó mhaidin go hoíche
Tá mo pheann gan bhrí
gan duilleog agam ná pár
ach tá tusa ionam:
maireann tú im lár
Grá buan daingean thugas duit
tobar lán nach raghaidh i ndísc
gach aon deoir atá ionam
go domhain sa tobar ritheann síos
Beautiful and tender as it is – Pokarekare ana was, in fact, a love letter to his second wife – the Māori author Paraire Tomoana was an Anglican and something of a war-monger! There are many recordings of his touching song:
To complicate matters even further, certain Gaelscoileanna (Irish-medium schools) have rejected the dripping sensuality of my version in favour of a hymn to the Virgin, the lyrics adapted suitably as follows:
A Mhuire Mháthair
A Mhuire Mháthair,
Sé seo mo ghuí
Go maire Íosa
Go deo im’ chroí
Curfá
Ave Maria, mo ghrá Ave,
Is tusa mo mháthair ’s máthair Dé.
A Mhuire Mháthair,
I rith mo shaoil
Bí liom mar dhídean
ar gach aon bhaol.
A Mhuire Mháthair
‘tá lán de ghrást’
Go raibh tú taobh liom
Ar uair mo bháis.
Why, some even claim that the original tune was not Māori at all but Irish or Scottish! Who knows? Anyway, of the two versions, I prefer the hymn.
***
The Moon on my Tongue is very evasive on the question of the bloody conflict between the two languages, Māori and English. In his Introduction, Ben Styles says: ‘Setting aside for the moment the terrible physical and political violence that followed this first encounter . . .’ When I come across the phrase ‘for the moment’, I expect the author to return to this vital subject, but no. It is dropped like a hot potato. Of course, the subject is often dropped in Ireland as well, as one might drop a blighted tuber.
This is an anthology of Māori Poetry in English and, as one might expect, it is peppered with Irish names, names such as Michael O’Leary, represented here with a poem called He Waiatanui Kia Aroha. Unglossed titles, words and phrases abound in this anthology as they do in some of our own macaronic compositions. Incidentally, by way of a very tiny footnote to literary history, New Zealand’s Michael O’Leary features in the English translation of my novella, Lacertidae, and a free PDF is available online if there’s any O’Leary out there who might be interested in tracking down a long-lost Māori relation!
If you are at all concerned for humanity, its past and future, The Moon on my Tongue will break your heart:
Take your hands from your ears
Hear their screams . . .
Bruce Stewart
This long morning we sit in a colonial outpostAnd sip our English Breakfast tea …
Reihana Robinson
These Māori todayAre not Māori anymore
I don’t know what they are …
Apirana Taylor
Fragmented, my soul lies here, there: in
The waste-wood, around …
Hone Tuwhare
Still, he has come, the white man
- has come, and has conquered
wiped from beneath us
that base we knew so well
so that it should exist no more
but be replaced, our glorious heritage
with muskets, fire and bricks
with industry, with progress
with 1966.
Ngahuia Te Awekotuku
Readers of The Moon on my Tongue will want to know more about these poets, luminaries such as Hone Tuwhare (1922-2008) who spoke Māori as a child. Then his well-meaning father handed him the Bible in English and commanded the boy to read it back to him. One critic describes Tuwhare’s poetry as a ‘collision’ between the Bible and native Māori narratives. He couldn’t afford university, he gets a job, becomes interested in Marxism and in American writers – so different to the British, as he says – writers with a social conscience, Steinbeck, Hemingway, Dos Passos, Thomas Wolfe. Recordings of the poet reveal the shaman behind the socialist-activist. We need shamans as much as we need scientists today, to save our rivers and trees, to save our languages.
Tuwhare’s father was taught to view the Bible (yet another tool of empire!) as the word of God. Did not God (or the gods) speak through the creation myths of the Māori as well? I found one glorious example in a curious compendium called Nineteenth Century Miracles by E.H. Britten: it seems to me that the Māori text is as powerful and as beautiful as Genesis any day. So let’s sign off our musings with this memorable extract:
The Word became fruitful;
it dwelt with the feeble glimmering.
it brought forth night;
the great night, the long night.
Night, blackness, evermore;
the lowest night, the lofty night;
the thick night to be felt;
the night to be touched;
the night not yet to be seen;
the night of death, yet alive;
no eyes yet in the world.
2018-02-23
Mugadh Magadh
Mugadh Magadh
Faigheann Coiste Forbartha an Bhaile litir an bealach ar fad ón Ind:iarratas ar nasc:
Ainm na háite san Ind: Magadh*. Dáiríre!
Ní fhreagrófar an litir ar ndóigh
Faigheann an Coiste tuairim is scór litir mhagaidh
den sórt sin in aghaidh na bliana
Más fíor do na ráflaí
is é an Cathaoirleach féin a scríobhann a leath acu
*Tá áit ann darb ainm Magadh agus é luaite i sraith de dhánta cáiliúla de chuid an fhile Indiaigh Shrikant Verma
Mockery
The Development Committee has received a letter all the way from India:a request for town twinning
with a place called Magadh*. Honest to God!
Needless to say, the letter goes unanswered.
The Committee gets about twenty such prank letters
on a yearly basis
Rumour has it that the Chairman himself
writes half of them
*Shrikant Verma wrote an illustrious sequence of poems in Hindi about a place called Magadh. In Irish of course, ‘magadh’ means ‘mockery’.
2018-02-22
Traigéid na nImirceach
Adeodato Barreto (1905-1937)
Do mhuintir Goa atá, mo dhála féin, ina gcónaí i bhfad óna dtír dhúchais, scaipthe gach áit
Gníomh a hAon
Tarraing aníos an t-ancaire, seol leat . . .agus as go brách leis an duine thar an mbarra.
Ar talamh, broinn thorrach agus bean
ag caoineadh . . .
Bailithe leis:
thug leis an solas ina shúile
a anam go léir ag cur thar maoil le solas . . .
bhí gaistí roimhe
ar an mbóthar fada achrannach
ach ní fhaca sé iad . . .
Deirtear agus é ag imeacht
gur impigh an gort Ríse air:
Stad, ná himigh!
Nach gcuireann sé as duit
seisce mo bhroinne torthúla
a fheiscint?
Cén fáth aghaidh a thabhairt ar thíortha i gcéin
nuair d’fhéadfá an talamh tirim seo
a iompú
ina ghráinseach
le do lámh féin?
Agus faoi rún, chuir an Crann Cnó Cócó
leis sin, á rá go buartha:
Fan! Ná bíodh eagla ort!
Ó fhréamh go frainse
is stóras ollmhór mé
Nach n-éiríonn folamh riamh . . .
Táimse dúnta do na codlatáin
ach ofrálaim mé féin dóibh siúd
atá cruógach.
Caith uait do chuid smaointe seafóideacha!
Fan! Ná bíodh eagla ort!
Labhair an Abhainn leis chomh maith
go séimh:
Nach baoth dhuit slán a rá linn!
Is gearr go gcaithfidh an sruth seo
in aigéan na beatha thú!
Ar nós an-chuid eile – an-chuid go deo! –
is tú ag imeacht, dírithe ar sprioc, beag beann
ar m’áilleachtsa . . .
faraor nach bhfaighir i dtír do chuid aislingí –
tusa a bhfuil an Eachtraíocht
imithe sa cheann agat
beagán dá bhfuil
i mo chuidse íon-uiscí!
Ag Teach Solais Aguada
a dúradh slán den uair dheireanach
is é ag imeacht:
Ó, a Dhia
an chinniúint chruálach seo:
treoir a thabhairt dóibh siúd ar shlí a n-aimhleasa . . .
cuirimse na gaistí in iúl dóibh
agus dainséir na mara . . .
comhartha i ndiaidh comhartha
arís is arís eile . . .
Agus gabhann an taistealaí thar bráid:
Ní fhéachann a shúile ach
ar aigéin de bhaoite.
Ní thugann sracfhéachaint ormsa . . .
Taistealaí na n-aislingí,
meangadh ort is tú ag imeacht,
sa tóir ar Chiste,
an eol duit, seans, a dheacra is atá se
filleadh?
Níor fhreagair an duine: faoin dtráth sin
bhí sé imithe i bhfad thar an mbarra . . .
Ní fada
go n-imíonn as radharc seolta bána
Rámhlong dhána an Chiméara ina gceann is ina gceann . . .
…………………………………………………………
Tá an gníomh thart,
Titeann brat an cheo . . .
Gníomh II
- Siar libh . . .Siar libh . . .
Siar libh . . .
Táim an-an-anseo . . .
- Agus stop sé . . .
Cáis taistil, ualaí,
Fir, cáis taistil,
agus fir liatha
á n-ardú
is á n-iompar
ar chairteacha
de láimh . . .
Lámha garbha
cosa crua
cosa a shiúlann
ar nós cuma liom
ar sheile
ar an talamh . . .
Seo iad an bhaicle
a mhaireann ar nithe a iompar
nó a bhrú go teann
féachaint cé d’fhostódh iad,
ag eascainí
go grusach
is iad i bhfad ón Tír atá ina gcroí,
i bhfad ón mBean a d’fháiscfeadh lena hucht iad . . .
Féasóga fada,
is geall le baird iad,
colainneacha téagartha ach crom
faoina n-ualaí . . .
guthanna duairce
garbha,
a mheabhródh fógra i gcéin duit –
seanaisling atá marbh anois . . .
Súile Chríost sa Ghairdín
i bhfíor Bharabas . . .
Curfá bhrónach istoíche
a chanann laoi a bhféindíbeartha,
an aisling bhréagach á caoineadh,
is iad gan ghrá ina ndílleachtaí.
Ar urlár fuar an ghairéid
in andúil rúnda an mhanaigh
a n-útamáil is a dtóraíocht – gan mhaith –
is faide ná riamh í
an nead theolaí ata fágtha acu ina ndiaidh . . .
Cloíte, tosnaíd ag srannadh,
beithígh bhochta iompair! –
is titeann chun tromshuain . . .
…………………
…………………
Is ar an traigéide ghoirt seo
titeann an brat arís.
Gníomh III
Seo chugainnBóthar na Cinniúna aniar
An t-oilithreach fáin:
Caol,
cnaíte,
níl maide
ná gurd oilithrigh aige:
mheabhródh sé
Críost cráite dhuit
é tagtha anuas ó chros éigin
ag iarraidh na cosa a thabhairt leis
ó na gadhair . . .
Máithreacha
ag sciobadh a gcuid páistí
ó na conairí
a shiúlann sé . . .
Má shnapann an mongral air
is plaic a bhaint as
gáirfidh an seanaoire, a úinéir,
gan faic a rá.
Is féidir cheana féin na coilm air a chomhaireamh
ar nós laethanta
an aistir aige . . .
Siúlann sé go balbh
ag déanamh a mharana:
muc ar gach mala aige
ar nós scamaill dhubha
ó oibseisiún dorcha –
seantaibhreamh atá marbh anois . . .
Is seo chugainn ag siúl é,
an fánaí:
siúlann sé go balbh
ag déanamh a mharana:
muc ar gach mala aige
ar nós scamaill dhubha
ó oibseisiún dorcha –
seantaibhreamh atá marbh anois . . .
Is seo chugainn ag siúl é,
an fánaí:
caol,
cnaíte,
níl maide
ná gurd oilithrigh aige:
mheabhródh sé
Críost cráite dhuit
é tagtha anuas óna chros . . .
……………………………….
Cé hé?
duine éigin . . .
Duine Éigin nach duine éigin níos mó é . . .
is nach Éinne anois é . . .
Rí mór i mbrionglóid mhór b’fhéidir.
Laoch mór b’fhéidir i meabhalscáil,
Gealt b’fhéidir nó aiséiteach, nó aithríoch
Á! Is cinnte nach é
an t-ógfhear gealgháireach é
a ghabh amach i rámhlong
maidin cheoch
agus misneach ina chroí . . .
Cé hé?
Cá bhfios?
Duine den slua sin
a shiúlann an domhan,
gan aige ach ón lámh go dtí an béal:
Na daoine sin, anam Chríost
agus aghaidh chantalach
Iúdáis,
na daoine sin a bhfuil dúchas ropairí iontu
in éide naomh,
iad go léir seargtha
ag an ocras.
A n-ainm?
- “Cloíte” –
Taibhse,
íomhá lag
d’aisling i dtaibhreamh
faoi thaibhse
a chonacthas i meabhalscáil;
Cad atá fágtha inniu? Faic!
Cad atá fágtha den limistéar órga sin
ar chuir tú fios ina thaobh uair amháin,
d’anam ag ceiliúradh
mar mhairnéalach misniúil,
cad atá fágtha?
Gal!
An Abhainn, an Teach Solais cairdiúil
an gort Ríse is an Crann Cnó Cócó
chonaiceadar eachtránaí cróga ag imeacht
agus bacach ag teacht . . .
Agus an mháthair leis an mbroinn thorrach
sí an duine céanna í a sciobann
an páiste
ód’ chonairse . . .
……
……..
……..
Féach, siúd ag imeacht an bacach-oilithreach
ar bhóthar na Cinniúna,
féach, siúd ag imeacht, siúd ag imeacht é,
foscadh éigin á lorg aige
áit a bhfaighidh sé tearmann.
……..
Sioscann an ghaoth . . . feadaíl …
…….
…….
Ar an dráma dearóil seo
titeann brat na hoíche.
(Ajustrel, An Phortaingéal, 5ú Bealtaine 1935)
2018-02-21
Cé eile a thuigeann cumha?
File: Goethe
Cumadóir: Schubert |
Cé eile a thuigeann cumhaCé eile a thuigeann cumhaCumha atá cráite! Scartha is ‘mithe amú Níl séan i ndán dom. Féachaim sna spéartha thuas Féachaim le díograis Eisean atá im’ chroí Tá ar an gcoigríoch. Le corrabhuais, le cumha Lasann mo chroí istigh. Cé eile a thuigeann cumha Cumha atá cráite. |
Nur wer die Sehnsucht kenntNur wer die Sehnsucht kenntWeiß, was ich leide! Allein und abgetrennt Von aller Freude Seh ich an's Firmament Nach jener Seite. Ach, der mich liebt und kennt, Ist in der Weite. Es schwindelt mir, es brennt Mein Eingeweide. Nur wer die Sehnsucht kennt Weiß, was ich leide! |
2018-02-20
Kon Markogiannis
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nuair a scoilteann an aigne an éalaíonn dia . . . cá ngabhann sé |
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when the mind cracks does god escape . . . where can he go |
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όταν o νους ραγίζει το σκάει ο θεός... μα πού να πάει Sarah Thilykou a rinne an leagan Gréigise |
2018-02-19
Dealbh
Dealbh
Tá dealbh nua i lár Bhaile na nGabhar
níl a fhios ag éinne cé (nó cad) atá ann
Ag cruinniú éigeandála de Choiste Forbartha an Bhaile
dearbhaítear nach bhfuarthas cead –
nár lorgaíodh cead – chun dealbh ar bith a chur ann
Chosnódh sé an iomarca airgid chun an dealbh a bhaint anuas
cá gcuirfí é?
ghlac Sydney na hAstráile le dealbh de Victoria
nach raibh ag teastáil; b’in scéal eile.
Ní bheadh sé ceart é a scriosadh
‘Ní sinne an tIRA’ arsa an Cathaoirleach
(bualadh bos lag)
‘D’fhéadfaí í a chur,’ ar sé,
‘ach cá bhfios ná go nochtfadh sí arís –
dála Victoria i gColáiste na hOllscoile, Corcaigh.’
‘Nach bhfuil aon náire orthu?’ arsa Leiftí.
‘Cad dúirt tú?’ arsa Bean de Lása-Uí Mhóráin.
Moltar gan faic a dhéanamh
12 in aghaidh, 2 ar son an rúin
Nuair a bhíonn siad amuigh ag siúl leis an ngadhar
nó ag tiomáint thar bráid
ligeann baill an Choiste orthu féin
nach bhfuil dealbh ar bith ann
Tá sé curtha glan as a n-intinn acu
Uaireanta fiafraíonn strainséirí
‘Cé hé mo dhuine, Fionn Mac Cumhaill, ab ea,
mo dhuine úd sa dealbh?’
‘Cén dealbh?’ an freagra.
níl a fhios ag éinne cé (nó cad) atá ann
Ag cruinniú éigeandála de Choiste Forbartha an Bhaile
dearbhaítear nach bhfuarthas cead –
nár lorgaíodh cead – chun dealbh ar bith a chur ann
Chosnódh sé an iomarca airgid chun an dealbh a bhaint anuas
cá gcuirfí é?
ghlac Sydney na hAstráile le dealbh de Victoria
nach raibh ag teastáil; b’in scéal eile.
Ní bheadh sé ceart é a scriosadh
‘Ní sinne an tIRA’ arsa an Cathaoirleach
(bualadh bos lag)
‘D’fhéadfaí í a chur,’ ar sé,
‘ach cá bhfios ná go nochtfadh sí arís –
dála Victoria i gColáiste na hOllscoile, Corcaigh.’
‘Nach bhfuil aon náire orthu?’ arsa Leiftí.
‘Cad dúirt tú?’ arsa Bean de Lása-Uí Mhóráin.
Moltar gan faic a dhéanamh
12 in aghaidh, 2 ar son an rúin
Nuair a bhíonn siad amuigh ag siúl leis an ngadhar
nó ag tiomáint thar bráid
ligeann baill an Choiste orthu féin
nach bhfuil dealbh ar bith ann
Tá sé curtha glan as a n-intinn acu
Uaireanta fiafraíonn strainséirí
‘Cé hé mo dhuine, Fionn Mac Cumhaill, ab ea,
mo dhuine úd sa dealbh?’
‘Cén dealbh?’ an freagra.
Statue
Glengower has a new statue smack in the middle of the town
nobody knows who (or what) it represents
The Development Committee holds an emergency meeting
and it is established that permission was never granted –
or sought – to erect any kind of statue
It would cost too much to dismantle it
where should it go?
Sydney, Australia, embraced an unwanted statue of Victoria
but that was then. This is now.
It would be wrong to blow it up
‘We’re not the IRA’ declares the Chairman
(to faint applause)
‘We could bury it,’ he suggests
‘But it might be exhumed as was a statue of Victoria
in University College Cork.’
‘Have they no shame?’ asks Lefty.
‘What did you say!?’ says Mrs de Lacy-Moran.
He proposes to do nothing
the motion is passed: 12 yeas 2 nays
When out walking the dog
or driving through town
members of the Committee
pretend it doesn’t exist
It has been put out of their minds
Sometimes a stranger might ask:
‘Who’s your man, Finn Mc Cool is it? The statue?’
‘What statue?’ is the standard reply.
nobody knows who (or what) it represents
The Development Committee holds an emergency meeting
and it is established that permission was never granted –
or sought – to erect any kind of statue
It would cost too much to dismantle it
where should it go?
Sydney, Australia, embraced an unwanted statue of Victoria
but that was then. This is now.
It would be wrong to blow it up
‘We’re not the IRA’ declares the Chairman
(to faint applause)
‘We could bury it,’ he suggests
‘But it might be exhumed as was a statue of Victoria
in University College Cork.’
‘Have they no shame?’ asks Lefty.
‘What did you say!?’ says Mrs de Lacy-Moran.
He proposes to do nothing
the motion is passed: 12 yeas 2 nays
When out walking the dog
or driving through town
members of the Committee
pretend it doesn’t exist
It has been put out of their minds
Sometimes a stranger might ask:
‘Who’s your man, Finn Mc Cool is it? The statue?’
‘What statue?’ is the standard reply.
2018-02-18
Ceo
Ceo
Titeann ceo, ag sileadh go mín ar Ghleann na nGabhar.
Ní fhacadar a leithéid riamh cheana
(ó chuaigh an béaloideas i léig).
Luíonn ar nithe nach bhfuil ann níos mó
caidéal an pharóiste
cnámha linbh
lámhscríbhinní Gaeilge: aistriúchán a dhein
Ní fhacadar a leithéid riamh cheana
(ó chuaigh an béaloideas i léig).
Luíonn ar nithe nach bhfuil ann níos mó
caidéal an pharóiste
cnámha linbh
lámhscríbhinní Gaeilge: aistriúchán a dhein
Seán Bán an Ghleanna ar Virgil
Titeann an ceo ar nithe nach raibh riamh ann
ar an mbaguette a iompraíonn an dealbhóir
M. Thierry Gillet tríd an mbaile
is nach baguette in aon chor é
ach go meabhraíonn a bhaile dúchais Rennes dó
Measann duine áirithe go bhféadfaí é a ithe.
Blaiseann sí spúnóg den cheo agus í sásta leis.
Foilsíonn cúpla oideas sa pháipéar áitiúil
ceo le mil, le cnónna agus mar sin de.
Duine eile á mheas gur cheart sampla a ghlacadh den cheo
is é a chur go dtí an Rialtas
ar eagla gur bhaol don phobal é.
Nach ón Rialtas a tháinig sé an chéad lá
arsa fear eile.
Níor chuaigh éinne amach ina dhiaidh sin
go dtí gur ghlan an ceo.
Titeann an ceo ar nithe nach raibh riamh ann
ar an mbaguette a iompraíonn an dealbhóir
M. Thierry Gillet tríd an mbaile
is nach baguette in aon chor é
ach go meabhraíonn a bhaile dúchais Rennes dó
Measann duine áirithe go bhféadfaí é a ithe.
Blaiseann sí spúnóg den cheo agus í sásta leis.
Foilsíonn cúpla oideas sa pháipéar áitiúil
ceo le mil, le cnónna agus mar sin de.
Duine eile á mheas gur cheart sampla a ghlacadh den cheo
is é a chur go dtí an Rialtas
ar eagla gur bhaol don phobal é.
Nach ón Rialtas a tháinig sé an chéad lá
arsa fear eile.
Níor chuaigh éinne amach ina dhiaidh sin
go dtí gur ghlan an ceo.
Fog
Fog falls, trickling softly on Glengower.
They’ve never seen the likes before
(not since the death of folklore).
It settles on things no longer there
the parish pump
a baby’s bones
Gaelic manuscripts: a version of Virgil
by one Seán Bán an Ghleanna
It falls on things that never existed
on the baguette which the sculptor
M. Thierry Gillet carries through the town
and which is not a baguette at all
but reminds him of home, Rennes
Someone decides this fog can be eaten.
She tastes a teaspoon of it and is content
publishes a few recipes in the local rag
fog with honey, with nuts . . . that sort of thing.
Someone else of a mind to take a sample of said fog
and send it up to the Government
in case it’s any danger to the public.
Another says, wasn’t it the bloody Government that issued it in the first place.
They’ve never seen the likes before
(not since the death of folklore).
It settles on things no longer there
the parish pump
a baby’s bones
Gaelic manuscripts: a version of Virgil
by one Seán Bán an Ghleanna
It falls on things that never existed
on the baguette which the sculptor
M. Thierry Gillet carries through the town
and which is not a baguette at all
but reminds him of home, Rennes
Someone decides this fog can be eaten.
She tastes a teaspoon of it and is content
publishes a few recipes in the local rag
fog with honey, with nuts . . . that sort of thing.
Someone else of a mind to take a sample of said fog
and send it up to the Government
in case it’s any danger to the public.
Another says, wasn’t it the bloody Government that issued it in the first place.
After that, no one ventured out till the fog cleared.
2018-02-17
Ginealach
Thaitin an Union Jack
go mór le daideo
na stríoca is na cearnóga:
oifigeach sráidbhaile ab ea é.
D'ardaigh daid an trídhathach.
Trodaí ar son na saoirse ab ea é.
Ardaímse bratach dhearg san aer.
I lámha mo gharmhic
tá bratach Yaincí
lena leathchéad réalta
go mór le daideo
na stríoca is na cearnóga:
oifigeach sráidbhaile ab ea é.
D'ardaigh daid an trídhathach.
Trodaí ar son na saoirse ab ea é.
Ardaímse bratach dhearg san aer.
I lámha mo gharmhic
tá bratach Yaincí
lena leathchéad réalta
Attoor Ravivarma
2018-02-16
Bratach dearg
coinnigh ar foluain í
an bhratach dhearg . . .
coinnigh ar foluain í
keep it flying
the red flag . . .
keep it flying
2018-02-15
Amhrán an Avadhut: a Thús
Dattatreya
1
Go deimhin, is trí ghrásta Dé
A éiríonn ionainn eolas ar an Aontacht.
Saortar an duine ansin sa deireadh
Ón eagla mhór roimh bheatha is bás.
2
An uile ní i ndomhan seo na bhfoirmeacha
Níl iontu ach an Féin, is an Féin amháin;
Conas, mar sin, a d'adharfadh an Infinid é Féin?
Is é Síve an tIomlán is é neamhroinnte.
3
Na cúig dúile fíneálta ar de stuif an domhain iad
Is seachmall iad mar uisce i meabhalscáil ghaineamhlaigh;
Cé dó, mar sin, a n-umhlóinnse?
Mise mé féin an tAon gan smál.
4
Go dearfa, níl sa chruinne seo go léir ach mé Féin,
Ní roinnte ná neamhroinnte í.
Conas is féidir a rá fiú amháin gurb ann di?
Breathnaím uirthi, ionadh orm is alltacht.
5
Cad é, mar sin, atá i gcroí na fírinne is airde,
Croí an eolais, an ard-ghaois?
Sé seo é: "Mise an Féin, an tAon gan chruth;
Sé mo nádúr é a bheith ar fud na bhfud."
6
An t-aon Dia sin a lonraíonn san uile ní,
Atá gan chruth ar nós spéir gan néal,
Sé Féin an uile ní, íon, gan teimheal:
Sin is mise ann gan amhras ar bith.
7
Is mé an tAon síoraí do-athraithe;
Comhfhios glan mé, gan cruth ar bith.
Níl a fhios agam conas, nó cé dó
A nochtann áthas is buairt an tsaoil seo.
2018-02-14
póstaer haiku / haiku-poster
beoir fhuar lá samhraidh
í mo ghrása . . .
cuach ag glaoch
my love
is a cool beer on a summer's day . . .
a cuckoo calling
2018-02-13
Fágaim Slán Leis an mBáisteach
Fágaim Slán Leis an mBáisteach
Amach liom go moch ar maidin
chun slán a rá leis an mbáisteach
sula n-imeoidh sí:
Uisce na habhann ar dhath gorm-scláta
sciathán an ghuairdill;
na féara fada á lascadh ag an ngaoth thais;
lochán ceilte faoi na sceacha
ar crith le teann neamhchinnteachta.
An fuadar seo is an liú
goltraí atá ann don bhliain atá ag imeacht,
á chanadh i nguthanna atá níos láidre ná mo ghlórsa.
Cuirimse leis an gcurfá, sin uile,
agus mé buíoch as gach
a bhfuaireas-sa ón mbáisteach:
mo spiorad á uisciú aici,
an domhan á leasú,
ainmneacha a cuid páistí fiáine á múineadh dom
de réir mar a bhláthaíodar:
ar dtús sna fálta sceach,
ansin san aigne.
Thug sí dom gile
an mhaidneachain
is mé ag siúl léi
thar na cnoic,
scáileanna na hoíche glanta dínn,
I dtreo is gur fhilleas abhaile,
mo shúile glas-ghlónraithe,
í cruinnithe orm gach áit
chun loinnir a thabhairt dom’ chneas.
Go moch ar maidin
d’fhágas slán ag an mbáisteach,
ach gabhann mo chroí léi anois.
Ar ball,
is í ag cúlú ó na goirt
fágfaidh sí spéartha glana ina diaidh
a bhfáilteodh daoine eile rompu,
ach ní mise.
Is mé an páiste fearthainne aici,
ach ní thig léi mé a thabhairt léi,
san ithir atáimse fréamhaithe ní sa spéir.
Beidh orm fanacht go bhfillfidh sí,
is í ag teacht go teann an fharraige anall,
boiseog á tabhairt aici don ghrian,
do m’fháscadh chuici féin arís.
Amach liom go moch ar maidin
chun slán a rá leis an mbáisteach
sula n-imeoidh sí:
Uisce na habhann ar dhath gorm-scláta
sciathán an ghuairdill;
na féara fada á lascadh ag an ngaoth thais;
lochán ceilte faoi na sceacha
ar crith le teann neamhchinnteachta.
An fuadar seo is an liú
goltraí atá ann don bhliain atá ag imeacht,
á chanadh i nguthanna atá níos láidre ná mo ghlórsa.
Cuirimse leis an gcurfá, sin uile,
agus mé buíoch as gach
a bhfuaireas-sa ón mbáisteach:
mo spiorad á uisciú aici,
an domhan á leasú,
ainmneacha a cuid páistí fiáine á múineadh dom
de réir mar a bhláthaíodar:
ar dtús sna fálta sceach,
ansin san aigne.
Thug sí dom gile
an mhaidneachain
is mé ag siúl léi
thar na cnoic,
scáileanna na hoíche glanta dínn,
I dtreo is gur fhilleas abhaile,
mo shúile glas-ghlónraithe,
í cruinnithe orm gach áit
chun loinnir a thabhairt dom’ chneas.
Go moch ar maidin
d’fhágas slán ag an mbáisteach,
ach gabhann mo chroí léi anois.
Ar ball,
is í ag cúlú ó na goirt
fágfaidh sí spéartha glana ina diaidh
a bhfáilteodh daoine eile rompu,
ach ní mise.
Is mé an páiste fearthainne aici,
ach ní thig léi mé a thabhairt léi,
san ithir atáimse fréamhaithe ní sa spéir.
Beidh orm fanacht go bhfillfidh sí,
is í ag teacht go teann an fharraige anall,
boiseog á tabhairt aici don ghrian,
do m’fháscadh chuici féin arís.
Tanya Mendonsa
2018-02-12
Chanting, chanting the Beloved's name by Bulleh Shah
Leagan Béarla: Ivan M. Granger
Bunteanga: Puinseáibis
Chanting, chanting the Beloved's name,
I am myself become the Beloved.
Whom then does that Name
now name?
Ainm an Leannáin á Chanadh
Ainm an Leannáin á chanadh agamIs mise eisean anois, an Leannán.
Cé, mar sin, a ainmníonn an tAinm sin
anois?
2018-02-11
Eugene Kitsios
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cnoic is sléibhte . . . iad siúd a d'ainmnigh iad dearúdta |
hills and mountains . . . those who named them forgotten | ||
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βουνά και λόφοι . . . αυτοί που τα ονομάσαν λησμονημένοι Leagan Gréigise: Sarah Thilykou |
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2018-02-10
Do UMASHANKAR JOSHI
Thug tú péire súl dúinn
is dhein tais iad chomh maith
le d' fhéilese, bhí an domhan ag cur thar maoil
mhúin tú dúinn conas siúl tríd an dufair, an dufair
a chur dínn.
Tusa a chuir na mantraí inár gcluas de chogar
is a chnag ar dhoirse an tsolais istigh
Chruthaigh tú droichead a lig dúinn dul sall
Thug tú péire súl dúinn
is dhein tais iad chomh maith.
You gave us a pair of eyes
you also made them moist
you made the earth overflow with your giving
you taught us to walk through the jungle, to cross
the jungle.
You were the one who whispered the mantras in our ears
that knocked at the doors of the light within
You created a bridge spanning from here to there
You gave us a pair of eyes
and also made them moist.
 |
| Prabodh Parikh |
is dhein tais iad chomh maith
le d' fhéilese, bhí an domhan ag cur thar maoil
mhúin tú dúinn conas siúl tríd an dufair, an dufair
a chur dínn.
Tusa a chuir na mantraí inár gcluas de chogar
is a chnag ar dhoirse an tsolais istigh
Chruthaigh tú droichead a lig dúinn dul sall
Thug tú péire súl dúinn
is dhein tais iad chomh maith.
FOR UMASHANKAR JOSHI
You gave us a pair of eyes
you also made them moist
you made the earth overflow with your giving
you taught us to walk through the jungle, to cross
the jungle.
You were the one who whispered the mantras in our ears
that knocked at the doors of the light within
You created a bridge spanning from here to there
You gave us a pair of eyes
and also made them moist.
Prabodh Parikh
2018-02-09
callán na gclog
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ag breathnú uaim ar challán na gclog i gcéin tá an-fhonn orm tú a fheiscint arís |
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ατενίζοντας τις καμπάνες να χτυπούν κάπου στο βάθος -- έχω μία λαχτάρα πάλι να σε ξαναδώ Leagan Gréigise le Sarah Thilykou |
2018-02-08
an dátphluma deireanach
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féachaim timpeall is fiafraím cá ndeachaigh siad? mo bhean chéile a mála lóin, an dátphluma deireanach |
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leukin roon a speer whaur'd they gae? ma guidwife, her piece poke, the hinmaist persimmon Leagan Béarla na hAlban John McDonald |
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Koιτάζω γύρω και ερωτώ: πού πήγαν; η γυναίκα μου, το σακιδιάκι της, o τελευταίος λωτός Leagan Gréigise le Sarah Thilykou |
2018-02-07
Tanka, Michael McClintock
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cuimhne atá agam - ag marcaíocht ar ghuaillí m'athar amach san aigéan, filíocht ag nithe sula raibh urlabhra agamsa |
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a've this myndin - coalie-buckie on faither's shouthers intae the ocean, the musardrie o theengs afore a cud threep Leagan Béarla na hAlban le John McDonald |
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έχω μια μνήμη -- στους ώμους του πατέρα στον ωκεανό, ποίηση των πραγμάτων πριν αρχίσω να μιλώ Leagan Gréigise le Sarah Thilykou |
2018-02-06
Tanka le Mori Ogai (1862-1922)
luch bheag
ag princeam léi
i measc na leabhar scaipthe
ligim orm a bheith im' chodladh
is mé ag breathnú uirthi seal
2018-02-05
Haiku le Issa ón mbliain 1819
mná rialta an teampaill . . .
is gá beirt
chun an raidis a tharraingt
.尼達や二人かかつて引大根
ama-dachi ya futatsu kakatte hiki daikon
2018-02-04
Scáil
Sáraíonn mo scáil féin
mo thomhas,
An bhfuil tomhas agam?
A fhiafraím díom féin;
An mbaineann tomhas le himirceach?
Ní déarfainn é.
mo thomhas,
An bhfuil tomhas agam?
A fhiafraím díom féin;
An mbaineann tomhas le himirceach?
Ní déarfainn é.
Brij Nath Betab
2018-02-03
An Bhean Óg Úd a Dhíolann Bláthanna
An bhean óg úd ina seasamh ar thaobh an bhóthair
Ag díol bláthanna, inniu
Tá sí féin iompaithe
Ina flós fíorálainn
Chun neachtar a colainne a shú aisti
Ar nós bumbóga, tá scata fear óg
Ag crónán thart uirthi
Inniu, is é an seoladh atá aici
Caolsráid rúnda sa mhargadh:
Chun streachailt in aghaidh an ocrais
Tá a colainn iompaithe ina siopa aici
An bhean óg úd, ina seasamh ag críoch-stad an bhus
Nó ag siúl i measc an tslua ar an gcosán
Nuair a fhaigheann siad spléachadh uirthi, iompaíonn
Na fir óga chéanna a súile uaithi is téann i bhfolach
Laistiar de sháraí a gcéile mná
An bhean óg úd is duine de scata ban óg í
Agus anois níl sí ag brath ar éinne níos mó
Ardaíonn sí a dhá lámh chun na spéire
Faoi mar is eol di go bhféadfadh sí greim a fháil orthu –
Réaltaí geala ag bogadh, ag preabarnach, pláinéid, réaltbhuíonta
Was selling flowers, today
She herself has turned into a
Very beautiful flower
To suck the nectar of her body
Like bumblebees, buzzing around her are so many
Young men
Today, her address is
A hidden alley in the market
Where, to fight her hunger
She has turned her body into a shop
That young woman, when she stands at the bus terminus
Or walks in the midst of people on the footpath
Then, on spotting her, those very young men
Avert their eyes and hide
Behind the open ends of the saris of their women
That young woman is one of the many young women
And now she is not dependent on anyone anymore
She raises both her hands towards the sky
As if she knows that she would be able to touch and hold
The moving, glowing, blinking stars, planets, constellations
Ag díol bláthanna, inniu
Tá sí féin iompaithe
Ina flós fíorálainn
Chun neachtar a colainne a shú aisti
Ar nós bumbóga, tá scata fear óg
Ag crónán thart uirthi
Inniu, is é an seoladh atá aici
Caolsráid rúnda sa mhargadh:
Chun streachailt in aghaidh an ocrais
Tá a colainn iompaithe ina siopa aici
An bhean óg úd, ina seasamh ag críoch-stad an bhus
Nó ag siúl i measc an tslua ar an gcosán
Nuair a fhaigheann siad spléachadh uirthi, iompaíonn
Na fir óga chéanna a súile uaithi is téann i bhfolach
Laistiar de sháraí a gcéile mná
An bhean óg úd is duine de scata ban óg í
Agus anois níl sí ag brath ar éinne níos mó
Ardaíonn sí a dhá lámh chun na spéire
Faoi mar is eol di go bhféadfadh sí greim a fháil orthu –
Réaltaí geala ag bogadh, ag preabarnach, pláinéid, réaltbhuíonta
Parimal Hansda
That Young Woman Who Sells Flowers
That young woman who, standing by the roadWas selling flowers, today
She herself has turned into a
Very beautiful flower
To suck the nectar of her body
Like bumblebees, buzzing around her are so many
Young men
Today, her address is
A hidden alley in the market
Where, to fight her hunger
She has turned her body into a shop
That young woman, when she stands at the bus terminus
Or walks in the midst of people on the footpath
Then, on spotting her, those very young men
Avert their eyes and hide
Behind the open ends of the saris of their women
That young woman is one of the many young women
And now she is not dependent on anyone anymore
She raises both her hands towards the sky
As if she knows that she would be able to touch and hold
The moving, glowing, blinking stars, planets, constellations
Dán le Parimal Hansda aistrithe go Béarla ón tSantáilis ag Hansda Sowvendra Shekhar
2018-02-02
Therigatha
Saor atáim
Saor atáim, saor go brách,ó thrí rudaí suaracha -
ón moirtéal, ón tuairgnín is óm' thiarna cam,
saortha ón athbhreith is ón mbás atáim,
is an uile ní a bhí mar bhac orm
scuabtha chun siúil.
Mutta
Nach saor atáim
Bean atá saortha go deimhin! Gan chuing atáim,nach iontach, saor ó bhrácáil na cistine.
Saor ó ghreim crua an ocrais
is ó photaí cócaireachta folmha.
Saor leis ón bhfear neamhscrupallach úd,
fíodóir na bparasól.
Suaimhneach atáim, sámh ionam féin:
scriosadh drúis, scriosadh fuath.
Seo mé faoi dhein scáth na gcrann
chun tuiscint a fháil ar an séan.
Sumangalamata
Maidir le Therigatha, féach an t-alt seo.
2018-02-01
Do Dhia na Tine ina Chapall
Ní dhéanann do shúile dearmaid.
Tá radharc na gréine ag do shúile.
Máirseálann do chuid smaointe go huafar istoíche
Solas iontu ag drithliú agus briseann
Tine ód' scornach is tú ag seitreach sa chath.
I bhforaois thaitneamhach a rugadh an tine
Maireann an tine seo faoi eacstais áit éigin san oíche.
Miodóg tine í a mháirseáil
A cholainn ollmhór
A bhéal ag oscailt is ag dúnadh
is an domhan á chogaint aige
Faobhar tua a theanga á luascadh aige
An t-adhmad amh a leagann sé
á bhruithniú is á scagadh aige.
É ullamh chun scaoilte agus feistíonn saighead le sreang
An solas á líomhadh ina fhaobhar géar ar an gcruach
Imíonn tríd an oíche le gluaiseachtaí gasta éagsúla
A cheathrúna lán de luail.
Is éan é a shocraíonn síos ar chrann.
Tá radharc na gréine ag do shúile.
Máirseálann do chuid smaointe go huafar istoíche
Solas iontu ag drithliú agus briseann
Tine ód' scornach is tú ag seitreach sa chath.
I bhforaois thaitneamhach a rugadh an tine
Maireann an tine seo faoi eacstais áit éigin san oíche.
Miodóg tine í a mháirseáil
A cholainn ollmhór
A bhéal ag oscailt is ag dúnadh
is an domhan á chogaint aige
Faobhar tua a theanga á luascadh aige
An t-adhmad amh a leagann sé
á bhruithniú is á scagadh aige.
É ullamh chun scaoilte agus feistíonn saighead le sreang
An solas á líomhadh ina fhaobhar géar ar an gcruach
Imíonn tríd an oíche le gluaiseachtaí gasta éagsúla
A cheathrúna lán de luail.
Is éan é a shocraíonn síos ar chrann.