Matisse

	tá mo chroí á dhó, a shearc, uiscí na Séine ní fhuaródh é         dá n-aimseoinn paidir ina luaith         scrábálfainn ar chosáin í
	my heart burns, beloved, waters of the Seine cannot cool it         could I find but the ashes of a prayer         i'd scrawl it on footpaths

Ahmed Morsi : Iraq's Weeping Women II

Ahmed Morsi Iraq's Weeping Women II 2011 Acrylic on canvas 60.25 X 90.25 in

cé a chaoinfidh le mná caointe na hIaráice? níl a gcuid deor in ann         an gaineamhlach i gcroí         an ionsaitheora a fhliuchadh

who will not weep with the weeping women of Iraq? their tears         cannot moisten the desert         of the aggressor's heart

Smaoineamh an Lae

Bualadh le duine a ghortaíonn go dona thú is ea teacht ar chiste luachmhar neamhchoitianta. Bíodh ardmheas agat ar an duine sin, agus bain lánleas as an deis sin chun do chuid lochtanna féin a ghlanadh agus dul chun cinn a dhéanamh ar an gconair. Mura bhfuil tú in ann grá agus comhbhá a bheith agat go fóill dóibh siúd a chaitheann go dona leat, is comhartha é sin nár claochlaíodh d'aigne fós, agus go gcaithfidh tú níos mó oibre a dhéanamh le dúthracht bhreise.

Dilgo Kheyntse Rinpoche

https://shechen.org/ 

Haiku

is leo fá dheoidh... tír a bhí tráth faoi smacht na nGall

theirs at last... a land that once was not their own

δική τους επιτέλους... γη που κάποτε δεν τους άνηκε Sarah Thilykou a dhein an leagan Gréigise

Haiku

níl a fhios ag an mbuin an prionsa nó tuathánach é an máistir

the cow cannot say what her master is... peasant or prince

the cou disnae ken whae's her maister... tink or laird Leagan Béarla na hAlban John McDonald:

Badam-vaer

Tanka by Gabriel Rosenstock, Documentary by Masood Hussain

filleann an uile neach ar Allah, a shearc an bheach ag filleadh ar an mbláth       mo chroíse ag teacht ar ais chugatsa       chugatsa i gcónaí, a stór

all beings, beloved return to Allah as the bee to the blossom       as my heart yearns to return       to You and You alone

Ahmed Morsi (3)

Clocks II
1998
Oil on canvas
82.25 X 120 in.

téann an clog siar anocht a stór, milliún bliain cén teanga a thiocfaidh     ód' bhéal is óm' bhéalsa     teanga atá marbh cheana féin?

the clocks go back tonight my love, a million years what language will come    from Your lips and mine    one that is already dead?

Impigh ar son an Ghrá

Impigh ar son an Ghrá.
Machnaigh ar an loisceadh seo, is iad siúd
atá á loscadh, mar thíolacthaí an Charad.
Níl faic le foghlaim.
Tá an iomarca ráite cheana féin.
Léigh aon leathanach amháin
as leabhar séimh do chroí
agus déanfaidh tú gáire faoin gcabaireacht seo,
an bhréagfhoghlaim seo go léir.

Abu-Said Abil-Kheir

Duilleoga Báite

Ron Rosenstock

seachas cuid díobh... glacann duilleoga báite le grian na maidine

some must wait... water lilies receive the morning light

Ahmed Morsi (2)

Black Bird II
Acrylic on canvas
59 X 78.75 in.

a cholúra teachtaireachta
an domhain, tagaíg'
tá laoithe agam daoibh
    le tabhairt dom' ghrá geal
    soir libh, siar - aimsíg' í

carrier pigeons
of the world, come
I have songs for you
    to bring to my beloved
    fly east, fly west, please find her

An Chonair Chugatsa

An chonair Chugatsa
im’ chroíse tá go glé
ní fheictear í, ní heol don aigne í.


Déantar tost dem’ bhriathra
timpeallaíonn Do mhilseacht mé.

Hakim Sanai Al-Ghaznavi

Do Mo Chairde Sa tSile

© PEN/Opp 

Bhí beirt chairde agam as Sile,
Cailleadh iad araon ó shin,
File ab ea cara díobh, dán an cara eile.
Eduardo Morales ainm an dáin.
Pablo Neruda ainm an fhile.
Scríobh Pablo dánta i gcaitheamh a shaoil,
Bronnadh an Duais Nobel air,
Chaith Eduardo a shaol ar fad mar dhán,
Níor bronnadh duais ar bith air, áfach.
Scríobh Pablo dánta, ach níor mhair sé mar dhán,
Tagann sé amach as a chuid dánta istoíche,
Lámh aige i ndúnmharú Trotsky.
Níor chum Eduardo dán riamh,
Ach níonn sé a chroí le dánta.
Filíocht is ea é.
Ba ghnách leis siúl lem' thaobh mar dhán.
Cailleadh le déanaí é,
Ach maireann a shaol fileata i gcónaí.
Chuir sé na hIgiúraigh in aithne do mhuintir na Sile,
Níl a fhios ag Pablo, áfach, gurb ann do na hIgiúraigh.

Abdushukur Muhammet

Féach anseo;

Ahmed Morsi (1)

Ahmed Morsi. 
"Untitled" (Soprano),
acrylic on canvas, 221 x 153cm (1997)

d'éalaigh amhrán
is thaistil an domhan
éinne a chloiseann é canann é
gan aon bhrí a bhaint as
d'ainm á rá acu, a chuid

a song escaped
and travelled the earth
all who hear it sing it
not knowing what it means
beloved, they're singing Your name

Scannán beag haiku / Little haiku film

Ealaíon / Artwork Masood Hussain

Frida Kahlo

Frida Kahlo - Magnolias

titeann géag
faoina ualach bláthanna:
an seanchrann magnóilia!
           ní iarraim aon ní ort
           ach bheith níos dlúithe feasta leat

a branch falls
under a weight of blossom:
the old magnolia tree!
                  I ask nothing of You
                  but to love You more each passing day

George Washington Lambert

George Washington Lambert - The Sonnet

a shearc, feicim
gan bua rúnda bheith agam
tá ar chumas an bhriathair
        tú a ghlaoch as an duibheagán
        tú a dhealbhú anso romham

beloved, i can see
without occult gifts
words have the power
              to conjure You out of the depths
              and sculpt You here before me

Amrita Sher-Gil

an scéal seo againne
atá á reic ag an seanchaí
murach sinne
      ní bheadh aon scéal ann
      sinne na chéad leannáin riamh



it is our story
that the storyteller relates
without us the story 
          would not exist, beloved
          we were the first lovers

Paindéim / Pandemic

Ohara Koson 

paindéim –
fanann an seilide
ina bhlaosc


pandemic–
the snail remains
in its shell

Antonio Sacco

pandemija

puž ostaje

u kućici

Leagan Cróitise: Helena Peričić

Tanka

Obair ealaíne: Masood Hussain, An Chaismír

chonacsa ní nach bhfuil feicthe ag na milliúin ribí d'fholt an Fháidh         is chonacsa mo chéadsearc         roimh bhreacadh an lae is chaoineas

i have seen what millions have not seen strands of the Prophet's hair         and I've seen my Beloved         before the dawn of day and wept

Dán Deireanach/ Last Poem

Dia féin fulaingíonn pian
Sa chorp seo is áras dó:
A bhriseadh líonann é le cian
Bailíonn a stuif go ciúin le haghaidh an róid.

Lekhnath Paudyal

LÁ 'NÁISIÚNTA' NA LUIMNEACH

Tugtar  'NATIONAL' (?) LIMERICK DAY, LÁ 'NÁISIÚNTA' (?) NA LUIMNEACH, ar an 12 Bealtaine ach, faraor, ní chun comóradh a dhéanamh ar dhuine éigin d'Fhilí na Máighe é ach in ómós d'fhile Sasanach, Edward Lear, arb é a lá breithe inniu é.

Chun an ceangal le Co. Luimnigh a cheiliúradh, chumas an luimneach seo a leanas atá lonnaithe i mo dhúiche féin in oirthear Luimnigh.

Is dóigh liom  go mbeadh sé oiriúnach do pháistí ach ní gach aon mhúinteoir a d'aontódh liom is dócha - mar nach ceart spraoi a bhaint as an véarsaíocht, tá's agat!

Bhí leaidín as Cill Mocheallóg

agus dhein sé a chac ina bhróg,

         Arsa a mháthair, 'A thaisce!

         A leithéid de ghaisce!'

Is rug ar an leaidín barróg.

Breis luimnigh:

The Irish Problem - You Won’t Believe It!

What is the Irish problem? I’m sure the Irish have many of the same problems as everyone else on earth,maybe more, maybe less. So what exactly is the Irish problem we are addressing here?

There’s a clue in the name itself, Irish. You see, the Irish don’t speak Irish! Not anymore. Less than 10% of the population. A lot less! Why is this? Well,there are lots of reasons.

In his book The Broken Harp, Tomás Mac Síomóin outlined a grim scenario when describing the fall and decline of the Gaelic world and the terrible effects of colonialism on the Irish psyche. Ghoulish, nightmarish actually, the stuff of monster movies, zombie movies.(More on that presently).

And there’s been a cover up. And the cover up continues. And we have to ask ourselves, why can’t we clean out the closet once and for all and breathe freely again. Put all those ghosts to rest, jabbering away in Irish, English, Kiltartanese, Cant and whatever you’re having yourself.

Mac Síomóin has followed The Broken Harp with another book, more conversational in style, The Gael Becomes Irish (2020).

Who is Mac Síomóin? He could be described as an Irish cultural exile who has lived in Catalonia for over 20 years. Writer. Journalist. Marxist. Scientist. Poet. Contrarian, according to his detractors. One could say that the Gaelic form of his name is in itself a statement, as most of the surnames and place names of Ireland are known by their Anglicised form, which often lends an air of idiocy to them, whether intended or not.

There’s the nub, already. The Irish have accepted Anglicisation and only a dedicated few wear a badge of resistance; one such badge is using the native form of one’s name and address. Using the native form of one’s name doesn’t necessarily mean you can speak, write or read Irish, however. That’s part of the Irish problem too. And vice versa! Some of the best Irish speakers I have heard never used anything but the English form of their name.

Many native speakers of Irish in Gaeltacht areas (Irish-speaking) are known by the English form of their names, or avoid the problem of the surname altogether by becoming known under a string of Irish-sounding and English-sounding Christian names, such as Paddy Mháire Dick, which places one on a recognisable family tree. Others have a name that distinguishes them in some manner or other, such as Máire an Bhéarla, meaning ‘Mary who can speak English.’ Maybe weshould all have that suffix attached to our names!

VANQUISHED ANCESTRAL UNIVERSE

English legislation regarding Anglicisation of names was not uniformly enforced and, so, you sometimes have the added complication of having people of the same family using different forms of their names: O’Houlihan and Holland, for instance. Houston, we have a problem!

But actually, it’s not funny. It’s serious. It’s symptomatic of a widespread disease, a sickness, a virus . . . the virus of colonialism. As Mac Síomóin says,

‘References that reflect his vanquished ancestral universe are replaced by those of the coloniser’s civilisation. The linguistically colonised becomes part of the referential universe of the coloniser.’

This is undoubtedly true. I remember reading a Sunday newspaper, in hospital, (which I normally avoid like the plague, i.e, hospitals and that particular rag!) The newspaper alluded to didn’t contribute to my rehabilitation, I can tell you that much. Au contraire. What attracted my eye (or what appalled it, I should say) was the crossword. It was oozing withwhat Mac Síomóin calls, above, ‘the referential universe of the coloniser’. Yes, there I was in a hospital bed, and an ‘Irish’ newspaper was worming its way into my mind with vile crossword clues regarding British royalty, British celebs and other questionable forms of life. Three across, four down . . . some bugger or other who was awarded the Victoria Cross. Help! Nurse!

COMPLETE CULTURAL COLONISATION

How do we allow ourselves to be treated in this insidious manner? The answer is simple. Mac Síomóin has got it right: 

‘Linguistic colonialization is complete cultural colonisation.’

The Colonial Effect is not some superficial veneer, a silly hat, or bonnet, that we can wear and take off at will, a sly peep at the Chelsea Flower Show, or even the Graham Norton Show, God forbid. No. Mac Síomóin insists otherwise: we are powerless! We’re stuck in the mire.

‘Colonialism has sunk such deep roots in our psyche that a need to restore the riches that were taken from us no longer has any relevancy for the majority of our fellow citizens.’

This is a hard-hitting analysis of the Irish problem, but a necessary one. Whenever it comes up, it is swept under the carpet, or derided. Being mealy mouthed about the subject would not serve any purpose at all. And Mac Síomóin is right to be riled about all of this. In a sense, it’s a matter of life and death because if the Irish language joins the list of those languages that have been dying at a rate of one per fortnight in recent decades, no one is going to turn up for the funeral – out of unspoken shame.

The crossword maker whose Anglocentric ravings upset me in hospital would probably not last very long with that particular newspaper if his research reflected the mores, insights, proverbs, songs, oral and literary culture of Irish, a language which stretches back over three thousand years. No, he’d be out on his ear. So would the literary editor, if he or she decided tomorrow to devote space every Sunday to reviews of Irish language books.

You would think that someone who makes crosswords for an Irish newspaper – or a literary editor for that matter – would be interested in Irish words, their history and etymology. But no, it’s as though his mind has been washed clean of our Gaelic past and the known universe is now merrily filtered through an Anglophone prism.

Mac Síomóin’s book reproduces part of an interview with the wonderful Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o who describes language as a natural computer, a natural hard drive. 

‘When you lose that hard drive,’ says the great African writer and intellectual, ‘you lose all thememories and knowledge and information andthoughts carried by that language . . .’

What a frightening prospect! It has something of thequality of a sci-fi film script, doesn’t it? Losing all that referential material, and in exchange for what? Make no mistake about it. There’s nothing sci-fi about all of this. It is real. It has happened. It continues to happen and we allow it to continue because we have not woken up to the fact that we are being manipulated left, right and centre. F****d sideways.

TRAUMA AND LANGUAGE LOSS

The trauma associated with language loss is described in Mac Síomóin’s previous title, The Broken Harp, and some of that deeply disturbing material is recapitulated here again. Why not? We need to know what happened and why it happened. Our educators and teachers also need to know what happened, and why and how it happened, and we need to unveil to Irish schoolchildren, once and for all, and unfold the bloody tapestry of the history of Ireland’s senior language. How on earth can the rising generation acquire a language at school, even the basics, if they don’t know its long and chequered history? What do you suggest,that it be taught in a vacuum?

We seem to be living in an anodyne society in which it is impolite to step on another’s toe, whatever shape or colour that particular toe might have, whatever its sexual predilections and so on! So, in that light, your average teacher in Ireland is unlikely to quote as follows from Mac Síomóin’s book:

‘The catastrophic Irish military defeat at Kinsale in 1603, and the subsequente migration to the continent of its civic and military leaders, initiated the gradual incorporation – aided by several genocidal interludes – throughout more than three succeeding centuries, of the Irish nation into English cultural and administrative practise. Such a process, plus itsfundamental economic aspect, is referred to as colonisation . . .’

Genocidal interludes? Has the Irish educational system the mind, or the heart, or the guts to talk about such things? If it did, wouldn’t there be complaints, letters to the newspapers and so on? Whatever about our teachers, and parents, have our children got an appetite for such things? (Or are their appetites too dulled by violent video games?)

Aren’t we all living in an age of appeasement now, a golden age of fraternal relations with our brothers and sisters on our neighbouring island? Why open upall those old sores? Why re-arrange the chieftain’s bones, as Patrick Kavanagh asked.

POETS HUNTED DOWN

We’re not finished yet. Mac Síomóin continues relentlessly. In this violent game, there’s only going to be one winner, and one loser:

‘Public use of the Irish language was penalised, except where practical considerations made its complete elimination impossible; it was all but completely eliminated from administrative affairs at a time when the native Irish population knew no other language. Poets and popular entertainers were hunted down and their works and musical instruments, when discovered, were destroyed.’

Great stuff! Why don’t they make a violent video game out of that? Hey, wouldn’t that be fun! What will we call this game? I know, Broken Harps! I love it! Let’s go hunting down some poets. Come on! Let’s smash some harps. First to smash 20 harps wins! Why stop there! There’s loads more to come. You ain’t heard nothing yet. It just gets better and better:

‘All non-Anglican religious practise was prescribed.[recte proscribed]. Roman Catholics, the vastmajority of the population, along with UlsterPresbyterians, were subject to Penal Laws, designed to impoverish them and keep them illiterate. Catholic priests who received their training in continental seminaries, were hunted down; rewards were offered for their head . . .’

THE OAK IS FELLED

Can you visualise it? Another computer game! Hunting priests. Hang them high! It could go viral! Well priests aren’t very popular today so it doesn’t matter. As long as those nasty Brits didn’t touch our trees. They didn’t touch our trees, did they?!

‘The oak forests which covered Ireland, in which most of our ancestors lived, and from which their fighters emerged to attack their English occupiers, were systematically felled. The wood both fed the furnaces of early industrial England and was used to construct the ships of England’s naval fleets.’

Ah yes, Rule Britannia!

The Slave Ship 

J.M.W. Turner

So, Tomás Mac Síomóin, I’ve known you and listened to you for over 40 years: maybe your polemics will bear fruit some day soon and we’ll have a slew of new video games to beat the band. Who needs dragons and what not when such genuine, colourful violence lies at our very own doorstep. Rich pickings, I say. Perhaps it’s happening already. We’ve had the film of the ‘Great Hunger’, Black 47 and now, more recently, Arracht. After all, entertainment is the linguafranca of the hour and arracht means ‘monster’ so it must be monstrously good:

As may be obvious, I go along with Mac Síomóin’s thesis is most respects but I would like to conclude by mentioning three areas where we part company. Firstly, his view of contemporary Irish-language literature is unnecessarily bleak. 

I think it was ungracious of him not to mention – even in a footnote– the remarkable energy and diversity of the Irish language IMRAM literature festival, a festival which honoured his own achievements not so long ago. True, many of its events are poorly attended – even stalwarts of the Irish-language movement fail to turnup! Members of the wider arts community also fail to make an appearance, even out of curiosity (unless they are part of an event).

Aha! Yes, but this is part of a larger malaise, as the ever-percipient John Zerzan notes in the current issue – pre-Covid-19 Lockdown – of Fifth Estate: Clubs are closing as people retreat further into their little screens. When people go out, they are so very likely to be at their tables on their phones. We do less socialising, have fewer friends . . . More and more is delivered to one’s door … Everything is available online, even cars:

Maybe IMRAM needs to do a rethink and bring some of its events to us for a while, rather than having a couple of hundred people venturing out into the real world and attending actual events!

I won’t be watching any IMRAM events on a smartphone simply because I don’t have one: I have a computer screen, yes, but I don’t want to witness the diminution of life, or art, on a small screen. I don’t want to ‘watch’ music, or view Turner’s The Slave Ship on any little gadget. It’s the leprechaunisation of everybody and everything.

Secondly, I differ with Mac Síomóin when he recommends simplifying the Irish language as taught in schools. Try simplifying chess. Or hurling. Why would you even think of such a thing!

Finally, Mac Síomóin advertises his book by saying that 

‘international considerations increasingly determine our national cultural parameters’. 

Sure. Nobody can argue with that. But the author is a Marxist and, by implication, a statist. We would have had a different book from him had he been an anarchist, a book which would have identified the state itself (whether the British state, the neo-colonial Irish state, or some possible European super-state of the future) as a major part of the Irish problem.

[Ar fáil ar/ available on Academia.edu]

Sogetsu

heavenly mystery . . .
autumn leaves
descend on a stone buddha 

mistéir dhiaga  . . .
duilleoga an fhómhair
ag tuirlingt ar bhúda cloiche

μυστήρια φύλλα
του φθινοπώρου
στον πετρωμένο βούδα

Leagan Gréigise: Sarah Thilykou

Agnes Lawrence Pelton

beloved, a song
within me blooms for You
as now on Mount Horeb
           a bush takes fire
           and is not consumed

a shearc, bláthaíonn
amhrán ionam duitse
anois ar Shliabh Horaeb
        tá tor á lasadh
         is gan é á dhó

Cantaireacht a Ghealfaidh an Croí

karpūragauraṃ karuṇāvatāraṃ
saṃsārasāram bhujagendrahāram
sadāvasantaṃ hṛdayāravinde
bhavaṃ bhavānīsahitaṃ namāmi

bán amach is amach mar chamfar, an chomhbhá ina steillbheatha
eisint an tsaoil abhus a chaitheann bláthfleasc Rí na Nathracha
a chónaíonn de shíor laistigh de loiteog an chroí.
Umhlaímse daoibh le chéile, Síve is Seaictí

Mo Pheacaí

Mo pheacaí go léir
agus maithiúnas an Charad:
Cá dtosnóinn
ar chuntas
nach bhfuil aon chríoch leis?

Dein dearúd
ar an gciontacht chráite
is ar mhíghníomhartha:


Is aoibhinn le Súil na Trócaire
áilleacht an pheaca

Sarmad

Tagore, a rugadh inniu, an 7 Bealtaine

Tagore i bhFaiche Stiabhna

Tá de dhualgas ar gach cine lampa a aigne féin a choinneáil ar lasadh mar chuid de shoilsiú an domhain. Is ionann lampa aon chine a bhriseadh agus a áit féin i bhféile an domhain a chosc.

Rabindranath Tagore, 

a rugadh inniu, an 7 Bealtaine, 1861

Emile Bernard

trí cheo haisíse
d'ainm á scairteadh agam
m'ainmse á scairteadh agatsa
             i mboth mhacalla an chroí
             b'aon ainm amháin é

through a haze of hashish
i called Your name
and You called mine
              in the echo chamber of the heart
              they sounded as One

Shiko

mé in éad leis an mailp . . .

nach álainn an duilliúr

sula dtiteann

Valentine Hugo

filí a dhein machnamh ort
d'fhéach rompu chun teacht ort
is iontu féin, a ghrá geal
            rompu is iontu féin in éineacht
            an idir eatarthu áit éigin ataoi 

poets who pondered You
looked outward to find You
and inward, beloved
    looked outward and inward at once 
    are You somewhere unknown in between

Dán

Cruthaíonn an grá mionbhraonta allais i d'fholt
Ar nós mháirseáil na réaltaí in uair mharbh na hoíche

Líonann an grá mo shúile, ag cuimhneamh ar d'fholt, lán deor,
Na deora seo ag lonrú ina slaoda;
Fite i mo chuid smaointe tá oíche dhorcha bháite
Ina slaoda ritheann amhráin lonracha ghrá.

Mir Taqui Mir

Genkaku

locháin éagsúla
aon ghealach
amháin

Mangan

Rugadh inniu é, 1803
Born today, 1803

            a Róisín, cad d'imigh ort?
            is tú id' ghósta
            ag siúl tharam
           

           Róisín, what happened?
           you are as a ghost
           passing by

William Orpen

a shearc, conradh síochána á shíniú acu
cogadh fós ina gcroí
féach ionad an tsínithe
          Halla na Scáthán, Versailles
          a liacht sin scáthán, a liacht sin bréag

beloved, they sign a peace treaty
their hearts still at war
see where they sign it 
            the Hall of Mirrors, Versailles
            so many mirrors, so many lies