Book of Kells

Maighdean is Leanbh ar smaoinigh an maisitheoir ar a mháthair féin         nó ar bheo di ag an am         saothar na n-aingeal 'bhí ann

Madonna and Child did the illuminator think of his mother         was his own mother alive         the work of angels it was

Srónbheannach

Bronzekleinplastik Panzernashorn von Stephan Horota aus dem Jahr 2005. Standort Tierpark Berlin (Friedrichsfelde) im Dickhäuterhaus. Lotse - CC BY-SA 3.0

is mian leis éalú an srónbheannach Indiach is dul le báiní         braithimse leis é, a chuid         ceansaigh an chreathadach seo

he wants to break out the Indian rhinoceros go on a rampage         beloved, I feel it too         come and keep me from trembling

Jagdish Swaminathan

más ann don éinín is leor sin domsa, a stór glórach nó 'na thost         ó, a ansacht, más ann duit -         ná bíodh má asam ná dá . . .

if the bird is there that is all i need to know let it sing or not         beloved, if You are there         no ifs! - let me not say if . . .

Corona - Paul Celan

 Corona

Itheann an fómhar duilleog as mo dhearna: is cairde sinn.

Bainimid an t-am as blaosc na gcnónna, is múinimid dó conas siúl:

filleann an t-am ar an mblaosc.

Domhnach atá ann sa scáthán, 

beidh suan sa bhrionglóid,

insíonn an béal an fhírinne.

Íslíonn mo shúile chuig baill ghiniúna

mo leannáin:

féachaimid ar a chéile,

caint dhorcha,

grá againn dá chéile ar nós an phoipín

is na cuimhne,

codlaímid mar fhíon i ndiúilicín,

an mhuir faoi sholas fuilteach na gealaí.

Barróg againn ar a chéile san fhuinneog, feiceann daoine sinn ón tsráid:

Tá sé in am fhios a bheith acu!

Tá sé in am ag an gcloch a bheith sásta bláthú

ag an gcroí bualadh go corrabhuaiseach

Tá sé in am ag an am a bheith ann.

Tá sé in am.

Paul Celan

Corona

Aus der Hand frißt der Herbst mir sein Blatt: wir sind Freunde.

Wir schälen die Zeit aus den Nüssen und lehren sie gehn:

die Zeit kehrt zurück in die Schale.

Im Spiegel ist Sonntag,

im Traum wird geschlafen,

der Mund redet wahr.

Mein Aug steigt hinab zum Geschlecht der Geliebten:

wir sehen uns an,

wir sagen uns Dunkles,

wir lieben einander wie Mohn und Gedächtnis,

wir schlafen wie Wein in den Muscheln,

wie das Meer im Blutstrahl des Mondes.

Wir stehen umschlungen im Fenster, sie sehen uns zu von der Straße:

es ist Zeit, daß man weiß!

Es ist Zeit, daß der Stein sich zu blühen bequemt,

daß der Unrast ein Herz schlägt.

Es ist Zeit, daß es Zeit wird.

Es ist Zeit.

Lachain / Ducks

 

cuilithíní...

lachain beag beann

ar cháil

ripples....

ducks impervious

to fame

Vinalhaven

Ron Rosenstock

lile ag éag . . . solas ag dul as sa solas

dying lily . . . light fading into light

Fr. Francis Browne

ní bheidh poll fágtha i mbuicéad! ridirí an bhóthair tagtha	there won't be a hole left in a bucket! the travellers are here
バケツに 穴は残さねえ！ 旅人がいる ~ Mariko Sumikura	nae mair leaky buckets! the tinks'r here ~ John McDonald

Suzuki Masajo

 

níl éalú uaidh  . . .

satailt ar dhuilleoga tite

ar an gconair seo

Jason Symes

 

ag éirí sa chroí

go dtí líontar é...

grian na maidine

rising up in the heart

until the heart is full...

morning sun

Mstislav Dobuzhinsky

Mstislav Dobuzhinsky Street in Munich 1901

chuardaíos, a thaisce ach, faraor, ní raibh teacht ort bhíos féin in easnamh         i mo dhuine nach raibh ann         agus a mhacasamhail uaidh

I looked, beloved You were nowhere to be found I too was absent         someone who didn't exist         looking for a counterpart

Neruda

Café Dissensus (New Delhi) carried an astounding article by Anidrita Saikia in a recent edition, an article to which I have responded with a bilingual poem, below.

The author quotes Neruda’s own Memoirs in which he confesses to the rape of a domestic servant, a woman of the lowly Dalit caste, in Sri Lanka:

“I got a strong grip on her wrist and stared into her eyes. There was no language I could talk with her. Unsmiling, she let herself be led away and was soon naked in my bed. Her waist, so very slim, her full hips, the brimming cups of her breasts made her like one of the thousand-year-old sculptures from the south of India. It was the coming together of a man and a statue. She kept her eyes wide open all the while, completely unresponsive. She was right to despise me. . . .”

Bring Her Ripe Tomatoes Now

Bring her ripe tomatoes now, Neruda

The Dalit woman you raped

Bring them to her

On a silver tray

Kneel before her

And beg her forgiveness

She is flesh and bone

Not carved stone

She does not know your language

Or your ways

But she will understand you

Little by little

If you beg sincerely to be forgiven

She is flesh and bone

Not carved stone

Do not speak to her in Spanish

Do not speak to her in poetry

Speak only in silence

Your head bent low in shame

Seek forgiveness

Seek salvation

She is flesh and bone

Not carved stone

Tabhair Trátaí Aibí Di Anois

Tabhair trátaí aibí di anois, a Neruda,

An bhean Dhalatach a d’éignigh thú

Tabhair chuici iad

Ar thráidire airgid

Téigh ar do ghlúine os a comhair

Agus iarr maithiúnas uirthi

Feoil is cnámha í

Ní cloch ghreanta í

Ní thuigeann sise do theangasa

Ná do shlite

Ach tuigfidh sí

De réir a chéile

Má impíonn tú uirthi maithiúnas a thabhairt duit

Feoil is cnámha í

Ní cloch ghreanta í

Ná labhair Spáinnis léi

Ná labhair léi i bhfoirm véarsaíochta

Labhair i dtost agus i dtost amháin

Do cheann cromtha agus náire ort

Iarr maithiúnas uirthi

Agus do shlánú

Feoil is cnámha í

Ní cloch ghreanta í 

George Luks

George Luks - A Clown, 1929

dá mbeadh bláth agam an bláth deireanach ar domhan tá's agat an chríoch . . ..         an bhfuil? nílimse cinnte         d'fhéadfainn é a roiseadh fós

if i'd one flower left the last flower in the whole world . . . You know what's coming         or do You? for i'm not sure         i may yet rip it apart

Cosa na Lobhar á bPógadh ag Meher Baba

Cosa na Lobhar á bPógadh ag Meher Baba 

Dusta na mbóithre ar a gcosa míchumtha

agus Meher Baba á bpógadh arís is arís eile

barróg á tabhairt aige dá n-anamacha áille

cumhracht Dé á leathadh ar fud na bhfud

níos milse ná seasmain

An tAon Réaltacht: crann É -

sú, fréamhacha, géaga

dírithe gach áit

grian, gaoth ag damhsa i measc na nduilleog

lobhar lonrach ag glacadh scíthe faoina scáth.

  

Meher Baba Kisses the Feet of Lepers 

Dust of the roads on their misshapen feet

kissed over and over again by Meher Baba

embracing their beautiful souls

God’s fragrance spreading far and near

sweeter than jasmine

The One Reality that is the tree, He

the sap, roots, branches

pointing everywhere

sun and wind dancing among the leaves

shimmering leper resting in its shade.

  

 

Stour o the causeys on thayr misshauchelt feet

preed ower'n ower agane bi Meher Baba

oxterin thayr bonnie sowls

The Almichtie's fume spreidin aw airts

doucer nor jasmine

The yin reality thit's the tree, He

the sap, ruits, brainches

pyntin awgates

sin an wund dauncin amang the leaves

skimmerin leper ristin in'ts shed

Leagan Béarla na hAlban le John McDonald:

Avond; De rode boom Piet Mondriaan

Avond; De rode boom Piet Mondriaan 1908-1910
leis féin . . . crann á ofráil féin go hiomlán chun na réaltaí	alone . . . a tree offers itself completely to the stars
alane . . . a tree gies itsel freely tae the sterns John McDonald	ひとりぼち 樹は投げ出しぬ 星へ身を Mariko Sumikura

Jason Symes

ag dul suas? ag teacht anuas? seilide na rún

going up? coming down? mysterious snail

Kyoshi

 

idir Neamh agus Talamh

braon nó dhó d'fhearthainn gheimhridh

chugainn

Max Liebermann

Max Liebermann. Der Chirurg Ferdinand Sauerbruch, 1932.
	tá an máinlia réidh d'iarras air mo chroí a bhaint caithfidh mé uaim é         ruainne chun na Bóinne glé         an fuílleach sa Yamuna
	the surgeon's ready remove my heart, i've told him to be cast away         a piece for the river Boyne         what's left for the Yamuna

Otto Müller

Otto Müller, Landschaft mit gegabeltem Baum, ca 1920

deir an crann gabhlach gabh an tslí seo, an tslí sin fanfad faoina scáth         ní thuigeann sé thú, a chuid         ní thuigeann d'uileláithreacht

the forked tree tells me go this way and go that way i'll stay in its shade         it does not understand You         Your very omnipresence

Harriet Backer, Landskap fra Bærum. 1890.

Harriet Backer, Landskap fra Bærum. 1890.

táid ag teacht ar ais ina gceann is ina gceann blátha ár n-óige         mheasas go raibh deireadh leo         a thaisce – rúin an domhain seo!

they are coming back one by one they're returning wild flowers of our youth          i thought they'd gone forever          beloved – the earth's secrets!

An Coirnéal Sanders

August von Pettenkofen - Stillleben mit totem Huhn und Krug

An Coirnéal Sanders Thug a mháthair, Dúitseach-Éireannach, rabhadh dó gan feadaíl a dhéanamh ar an Domhnach (ní mian leat dul go hIfreann, an mian?) Ní dúirt sí faic mar gheall ar chearcdhíothú. Maraíonn KFC thart ar 1.54 milliún sicín in aghaidh na bliana. Fásann siad go tapa réidh le marú laistigh de 30 lá. Seachain loit chraicinn: is é is cúis leis ná amóinia i gcac na n-éan eile i ngéibheann

Colonel Sanders His Dutch-Irish mother warned him never to whistle on Sundays (you don't want to go to Hell, do you?) She never warned him about henocide. KFC kills c. 1.54 million chickens a year. They are a fast-growing breed ready to slaughter after 30 days! Watch out for skin lesions caused by ammonia in the waste of caged companions.

Eugène Burnand

	gan tú a fheiscint delirium tremens, sea gan do ghuth a chlos         gan aithne a chur ort         gan grá a thabhairt duit - ifreann
	not to see You now is delirium tremens not to hear Your voice         not to know You - hell itself         not to love You - damnation

Bíonn bláth sona i gcónaí

 Bíonn bláth sona i gcónaí mar is álainn é.
Canann beacha amhrán an uaignis, amhrán na ndeor.
Eas uisce ag ionsaí na mara.
File séidte thall is abhus ag an ngaoth.
 
Cara gan taobh amuigh ná taobh istigh
Agus carraig nach bhfuil sona ná brónach
Is iad ag faire ar chorrán gealaí sa gheimhreadh
Ag fulaingt sa ghaoth fheannaideach.

Chögyam Trungpa

An Ghealt

 

Luigh sí le scamall: ansin, ar ndóigh, ghabh gin;
Lean an chuid eile go réidh. Dhein smidiríní den chrúiscín cré sa bhaile le pléisiúr
Is thosaigh ar oilithreacht a chuirfeadh deireadh lena colainn.
Casadh asal uirthi sa tslí agus d’adhair go hómósach é.
Rug sí greim santach ar a raibh fágtha den phota túise is ar sí,
‘Dá mbeadh sé seo leis tiontaithe ina luaithreach cad déarfainn leis an domhan?
Ach tá an Chinniúint éachtach is siúlann romham mar ghadhar.”
Rug greim ansin ar dhuilleoga bainiain
                     is chroch ar chrann peepal iad
Is ar sí, ‘Ní gá dom faic a íoc le héinne anois
              oiread is gealach lán.”
Lean an chuid eile go réidh (mar a luaigh mé cheana)
Saolaíodh tintreach don Ghealt;
                                         thug cíoch don tintreach,
Ar aghaidh ansin leis an nGealt; casadh an tAbhlóir Cúirte uirthi sa tslí;
Ansin an Rí; an Bhanríon ansin; ansin A; ansin B.
Ach bhí a ciall go maith ag an nGealt: níor aithin sí duine ar bith.

Vinda Karandikar

Feartlaoi ar mo Leac Uaighe

Níl
éinne anseo.
Imigh leat.

Manushya Puthiran

Tanka

Féinphortráid, Adolf Hitler (1910)

abhainn bhréan an ama is í ag rith go síoraí tóg uaim é mar radharc         an nglantar gach ní sa mhuir         'bhfuil gach neach ina Bhúda?

it flows for ever the dirty river of time i cannot watch it         are all things cleansed in the sea         is everyone a Buddha?

Haiku le Michael Dudley

 

 

 

 

sa bhosca litreacha
cárta poist ón nGréig
agus bolb

Caravaggio

each and every day is the road to Damascus every day i fall         every moment reveals You         help me to fall, Beloved

sé seo an bóthar chun na Damaisce, a stór titimse gach lá         léirítear thú gach soicind         a chuid, cabhraigh lem' thitim