Monet Refuses the Operation -- Lisel Mueller -- Diúltaíonn Monet don Obráid

Monet Refuses the Operation

Doctor, you say that there are no haloes
around the streetlights in Paris
and what I see is an aberration
caused by old age, an affliction.
I tell you it has taken me all my life
to arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels,
to soften and blur and finally banish
the edges you regret I don't see,
to learn that the line I called the horizon
does not exist and sky and water,
so long apart, are the same state of being.
Fifty-four years before I could see
Rouen cathedral is built
of parallel shafts of sun,
and now you want to restore
my youthful errors: fixed
notions of top and bottom,
the illusion of three-dimensional space,
wisteria separate
from the bridge it covers.
What can I say to convince you
the Houses of Parliament dissolve
night after night to become
the fluid dream of the Thames?
I will not return to a universe
of objects that don't know each other,
as if islands were not the lost children
of one great continent.  The world
is flux, and light becomes what it touches,
becomes water, lilies on water,
above and below water,
becomes lilac and mauve and yellow
and white and cerulean lamps,
small fists passing sunlight
so quickly to one another
that it would take long, streaming hair
inside my brush to catch it.
To paint the speed of light!
Our weighted shapes, these verticals,
burn to mix with air
and changes our bones, skin, clothes
to gases.  Doctor,
if only you could see
how heaven pulls earth into its arms
and how infinitely the heart expands
to claim this world, blue vapor without end.
 

~ Lisel Mueller ~

(Sixty Years of American Poetry, The Academy of American Poets)

Diúltaíonn Monet don Obráid

A Dhochtúir, deir tú nach bhfuil luan ar bith
thart timpeall na soilse sráide i bPáras
agus gur mearbhall atá orm
de dheasca na seanaoise, leatrom.
Táimse á rá leatsa gur thóg sé an saol ar fad orm
lampaí gáis a fheiscint sa deireadh ina n-aingil,
na himill nach bhfeicimse, faraor, dar leat,
a bhogadh, a dhoiléiriú is a dhíbirt sa deireadh,
a fháil amach nach ann don líne ar thugas fíor
na spéire uirthi agus gurb í an staid chéanna
a bhaineann le spéir is uisce – is fada scartha óna chéile iad.
Ceithre bliana is caoga ó shin ba léir dom
gur le gathanna gréine comhthreomhara
a tógadh Ardeaglais Rouen
agus anois ba mhaith leat earráidí na hóige
a athbheochan: nóisin dhaingnithe
de bhun is barr,
seachmall an spáis thríthoisigh
visteáiria neamhspleách
ar an droichead atá á clúdach.
Cad is féidir dom a rá chun go dtuigfeá
go leánn na Tithe Parlaiminte
oíche i ndiaidh oíche le bheith
mar bhrionglóid lachtach na Tamaise?
Ní fhillfeadsa ar chruinne ina bhfuil nithe
aineolach ar a chéile –
nach clann d’aon ollmhór-roinn amháin
iad gach aon oileán? Tá an domhan
ag síorathrú agus is é atá sa solas
ná an rud a dteagmhaíonn sé leis,
uisce, lilí ar uisce,
os cionn agus faoi bhun uisce,
ag éirí liathchorcra agus buí
ina lampaí bána is ceiriúlacha,
doirne beaga ag seachadadh sholas na gréine
chomh gasta sin chun a chéile
go dteastódh ribí fada ina slaoda uaim
laistigh dem’ scuab chun breith air.
Luas an tsolais a phéinteáil!
Ár gcruthanna ualaithe, na ceartingir seo,
á ndó is ag meascadh le haer,
ár gcnámha, ár gcraiceann, ár gcuid éadaigh
á n-athrú ina ngáis. A Dhochtúir,
dá gcífeá neamh
agus an chruinne á tarraingt chuici ina baclainn aici
agus síorleathnú an chroí
chun an domhan seo a éileamh, gal ghorm gan chríoch.

 ~ Lisel Mueller ~

Doctor, ye say thayr's nae gowes
aroon the causeylichts in Pairis
An whit am gliskin's a geegaw
brocht on bi eild, a pyne.
Ken it's taen me aw ma life
tae cum on the veesion o leerielichts as angels,
tae satften, blear, syne bainish
the edges you rue a dinnae sei,
tae lear the line a cried the easin
disnae exeest an lift an watter,
sae lang pairtit, are the samen set o bein.
Fifty-fower year afore a cud sei
Rouen Cathedral's biggit
o parpen beams o sinlicht,
an nou ye'r ettlin tae sort
ma youtheid mistaks: set
notions o tap an boddom,
the blaflum o threy dimensional space,
wisteria apairt
frae the brig it haps.
Whit micht a say tae gar ye see't
the Hooses o Pairlament dwine
nicht efter nicht tae cum
the fluid drame o the Thames?
A'll nivver retour tae a universe
o thingums thit dinnae ken ilk ither,
as tho islands wurnae the tint bairns
o yin muckle continent. The warl
is flux, an licht cums whit it tigs,
cums watter an lilies on watter
abuin an ablow watter,
cums laylock an mauve an yella
an fite an derk-blae leeries,
peerie nieves passin sinlicht
sae swith tae yin anither
thit it wid tak lang, tovin herr
inby ma brush tae cleek it.
Tae pent the stoorin o licht!
Oor wechtit sets, thae verticals,
brenn tae mell wi err
syne chynges oor banes, skin, claes
tae gases. Doctor,
gin ye cud anely glisk
how heiven pous yirth intae'ts airms
an hou infinitely the hert swalls
tae awn this warl, blae oam wi'oot en

John McDonald