translated from the isiZulu by Vusi Mchunu. Irish-language transcreation and recording by Gabriel Rosenstock
Gáire i measc na mBocht
Ná ceapadh an taoiseach gur lúcháir Atá i ngáire na mbocht Aoir atá sa gháire chun cora crua an tsaoil a shárú Dearúd a dhéanamh ar an nganntan is ar an ngátar
Laughter amongst the poor
The ruler should not fool himself And see the laughter of the poor to mean joy For laughter is satire to transcend harsh reality And to forget want and need and lack of wealth
Uhleko alufani
Angazikhohlisi yena obusayo Athi wena unjengaye ngokuba uyahleka uyajabula Uhleka noma umpofu ehleke nasekuhluphekeni Ke ukuba wena kawunangcebo engangeyakhe
An lá a cailleadh mo mháthair
Tamaillín roimh éirí na gréine Nuair a chonaic mé an t-éan ag dul go hardaitheach sa spéir Deabhadh uirthi siar Thuigeas-sa ag an nóiméad sin Go rabhais-se–an droim daingean a d’iompraíodh mé– Ar shlí na fírinne. Sall a d’imís
The day mother passed on
It was shortly before sunrise When I saw the bird soaring through the sky Hastening in flight to the west And I knew at that moment That you, you the firm back that carried me You have passed on. You have crossed further on
Mhaígh an té ar theastaigh uaidh dochar a dhéanamh dom Go réiteodh sé gaiste romham i gclais. Agus lá éigin go mbeinnse gafa i mo dhaor aige Céasfar mé ag na súile a bheidh ag dul thar bráid Im’ cheap magaidh ag cách, agus déarfaidh siad “Cad sa diabhal a bhí ar siúl aige, Nár thuig sé go gcaithfidh an té atá lag a bheith aireach Agus gan a bheith ag siúl thart i dtaibhreamh na súl oscailte!”
Mocked by the living
The one who meant to harm me Boasted that he will set a trap in a pit for me And one day, he would catch and enslave me And I will be tortured by the stares of passersby I will be mocked by the living, saying “What did he think he was doing, Did he not know that the weak should be wary That they may never walk as in a daydream!”
Tráthnóna amháin bhí rud éigin ag bogadh sa dorchadas Amach liom. Chuas go dtí an réiteach Ansin chuala mé muiscít do mo leanúint D’fhiafraíos di cad a bhí uaithi Tá ocras orm, arsa an mhuiscít, tá do chuid aibhneacha dearga uaim Ligeas di ól asam agus dúrt léi éirí as nuair a bheadh a sáith ólta aici “Ól do dhóthain anois, agus fág braon don chuid eile!”
The hungry mosquito
One evening I saw movement in the dark I went outside, I went to the opening Then I heard a mosquito following me I asked what he wanted from me Mosquito said she is hungry, hungry for my red rivers I allowed it to drink, telling it to stop when full “Drink your fill, and leave something for others!”
"I did not choose to write in Zulu; I did not have to make a decision. In my tradition, you are actually inhabited by the spirits on your shoulders and they tell you what to do, what to say." Mazisi Kunene, Southern African Review of Books, 1993
Frequent guest at festivals, poetry meetings or book fairs, where he has held literary workshops, recitals, talks, conferences, as well as published in various newspapers and magazines around the world.
Columnist of cultural and political criticism, in the magazine Libros y Letras, Literary Magazine of Colombia and Latin America.
Director of the International Poetry Festival En el Lugar de los Escudos (Mexico), which will be held for the ninth time in May 2024.
Some of his books: Scenes of an Afternoon (Costa Rica); Beneath the Wind (Venezuela, Argentina); Beyond the Mist (Mexico); Osip (Spain); A Country without a Name (Mexico).
Upcoming publications: About the Fragments (poetry, Colombia); The Individual in the Shadow (essay, Mexico).
His texts have been translated into English, French, Italian, Portuguese, Macedonian, Arabic, Bengali, Aymara, Greek, Vietnamese, Polish, Russian, Mandarin, and Korean.
He was director of the International Liberty and Poetry Symposium (Costa Rica 1998-2005).
In charge of the literature area of the International Arts Festival (Costa Rica, 2001-2003).
He was a member of the editorial board and editorial secretary of K Magazine 2007-2010 (Mexico City).
Others:
Walls of Timid Brilliance, choreography by the group Diquis Tíquis, based on the poem Triptych. National Dance Award, 1993, Costa Rica.
Altered States, UNA Chamber Dance Company, based on the poem Solveit. National Dance Award, 2016, Costa Rica.
Beyond the Mist, based on the book of the same name, winner of the IBERESCENA Fund (Ibero-American Performing Arts), Costa Rica-Colombia-Mexico co-production, 2023.
«¿Será posible que yo exista realmente, y que la muerte verdadera llegue?» se preguntaba Ósip Mandelstam, en un texto transcrito, no se sabe por quién, tampoco cuándo, en una de las paredes del reclusorio, bañadas por un sol negro, en espera de la noche, de las fosas
“Is it possible that I really exist, and that true death comes?” Ósip Mandelstam would ask himself, in a transcribed text, no one knows by whom, nor when, on one of the walls of the prison, drenched by a black sun, awaiting the night, of the graves
"An fíor go bhfuilimse ann dáiríre agus go dtagann an bás cinnte?" ceist a chuir Ósip Mandelstam air féin, i dtéacs tras-scríofa, ní fios cé a dhein, ná cathain, ar bhalla de bhallaí an phríosúin, báite ag grian dhubh, ag feitheamh le hoíche na n-uaigheanna
Kon Markogiannis is an existential poet, experimental photographer, collage artist, independent researcher and spiritual seeker with an interest in themes such as memory, mortality, spirituality, the human condition, the exploration of the human psyche and the evolution of consciousness. He sees his work as a kind of weapon against the ephemeral or, as Vilém Flusser would say (Towards a Philosophy of Photography), a “hunt for new states of things”. Kon has been exhibiting his art for many years (mainly in Greece and the UK) and his writings have been featured in various books, journals and magazines. His university studies include a BA in Visual Communication Design, an MA in Photography and a doctorate in Fine Art. He currently lives and works in Thessaloniki, Greece. Books: Ίσως ο Θάνατος (Greek poetry), Ίχνη Φωτός (Greek poetry), Angelic Flights (poetry in Irish-Greek-Japanese, collaboration with Gabriel Rosenstock, Sarah Thilykou and Maki Starfield), Dysturban (photobook).
the 12 phobias
1. I’m afraid of tomorrow today yesterday
2. I’m afraid to live afraid to die
3. I’m afraid I won’t wake up from the lethargy of existence
4. I’m afraid of dreams which haunt my waking hours
5. I’m afraid to look at my own self
6. I’m afraid of my thoughts my desires my shadow
7. I’m afraid of the beast which lives within my gut
8. I’m afraid of nothingness emptiness and zeroness
9. I’m afraid of the darkness which lies inside me
10. I’m afraid I may be reborn and repeat the same mistakes
11. I’m afraid but I do not know why I should be afraid
12. I’m afraid I might find that fear does not exist
an dá fhóibe dhéag
1. Tá eagla orm roimh an lá amárach an lá inniu an lá inné
2. Tá eagla orm roimh an mbeatha eagla orm roimh an mbás
3. Tá eagla orm nach ndúiseod as spadántacht an tsaoil
4. Tá eagla orm roimh bhrionglóidí a chéasann mé is mé im’ dhúiseacht
5. Tá eagla orm breathnú orm féin
6. Tá eagla orm roimh mo chuid smaointe mo mhianta mo scáil
7. Tá eagla orm roimh an mbrúid a chónaíonn i m’ionathar
8. Tá eagla orm roimh neamhní roimh an bhfolús roimh nialas
9. Tá eagla orm roimh an dorchadas atá istigh ionam
10. Tá eagla orm go n-athshaolófaí mé is na dearmaid chéanna a dhéanamh arís
11. Tá eagla orm ach níl a fhios agam cén fáth a mbeadh eagla orm
12. Tá eagla orm go bhfaighinn amach nach ann don eagla
Haiku in four languages.
ANGELIC FLIGHTS is a collection of haiku written originally in Irish (Gaelic) by Gabriel Rosenstock, translated into English by the poet, Greek transcreation by Sarah Thilykou, and Japanese transcreation by Maki Starfield), and photographically complemented by Kon Markogiannis.
"These glimpses caught in words or images are each so weightless and so shifting that you could think they have no substance...that is, until the moment when like curling smoke and light they touch each other in the darkness, and a bright perception takes form, looks back at us, comes alive."
Philip Gross
"The exquisite fusion of image and word renders a deeply satisfying aesthetic experience, whereby we are transmuted by its profundity, exquisiteness and light. Indeed, accomplished artists in their own right, photographer and poet have melded their talents to produce a visceral and ethereal monograph on the flights of angels and in turn have lifted up our souls to the very gods."
Paula Marvelly (Editor The Culturium)
"The initial experience of flicking through the pages reminded me of seeing the films of the American filmmaker Kenneth Anger whose work was a blend of surrealism, eroticism and the occult . . . For those who like the ambitious and iconoclastic, and also mingle a taste for the horror channel with a penchant for the shadow side of the psyche, this would make a great gift."
Diana Webb, review in Blithe Spirit, Journal of the British Haiku Society, Vol. 32, No.2
Is America in need of an exorcism? Say after me, 50 times daily: 50 for all 50 states of the USA–
In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen. Most glorious Prince of the Heavenly Armies, Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us! Our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.
The English version (above) only serves as a guide. It has no power in itself to drive out evil spirits! How could it? Is it not the chosen tongue of the Great Shaitan himself!
Recommended languages: Irish, Nahuatl.
Díbirt Deamhan
An bhfuil gá ag Meiriceá le díbirt deamhan? Abair im' dhiaidhse, 50 uair sa lá: 50 a sheasann do 50 stát Mheiriceá– In ainm an Athar, agus an Mhic, agus an Spioraid Naoimh. Áiméan.
A Phrionsa shárghlórmhair na nArm Neimhe, Naomh Mícheál Ardaingeal, cosain sinn!
Mar ní le naimhde daonna atáimid i ngleic ach le tiarnais, agus cumhachtaí agus rialtóirí domhain seo an dorchadais, agus le hainspridí na bhflaitheas.
Níl sa Bhéarla (thuas) ach treoir. Níl ar a chumas ainspridí a ruaigeadh. Conas a dhéanfadh? Nach é a rogha teanga ag Sátan Mór féin é!
Born in Tinos, Greece in 1944, Dino Siotis has published thirty five books of fiction and poetry in Greek, English, French and Spanish. His poems have been translated into many languages, including Arabic and Chinese. He is the founder of Wire Press and Society of (de)kata and the publisher and editor of sixteen political and/or literary magazines in San Francisco, Ontario, New York, Boston, and Athens. He regularly contributes articles on communication, the arts and book reviews in newspapers. He studied Law at Athens University and Creative Writing at San Francisco State University, following which he entered the diplomatic corps for the Hellenic Republic and served abroad a number of years in Canada and the U.S. as director of Press and Communication. In 2007 he received the Greek State Poetry Award for his poetry collection Autobiography of a Target. In 2011 he started Poets Circle in Athens. He is director of the Athens World Poetry Festival and the Tinos International Literary Festival and spends his time between Athens and Tinos, Greece.
Gaza
Once upon a time there was Gaza, once upon a time long ago it was a city with streets, squares with palm trees and public buildings and schools and houses with doors and
shuttered and glazed windows, once and for all long ago there was water and electricity and public administration, once upon a time there were trees with birds, coffeehouses
with people drinking tea and coffee and talking, once upon a time there was a wind that came from river to the sea even if the wave was closed it would reach to Rafah, once upon a
time the inhabitants of Gaza lived beautifully and peacefully and laughed and danced and they moved around and fell in love and married and they prospered and the children went
to school too their joys (which had no end) were recycled to the moon, once upon a time all of Gaza was a vast light that reflected beauty and the liveliness of the moment, once upon
a time the expected one could not describe it or to predict it, once upon a time Gaza was all one district, a neighborhood, then flood came, and Gaza became a plane lost in its flight
Tinos, May 25, 2024
Γάζα
Μια φορά κι έναν καιρό ήταν η Γάζα, μια φορά κι έναν καιρό ήταν μια πόλη με δρόμους, πλατείες με χουρμαδιές και δημόσια κτίρια και σχολεία και σπίτια με πόρτες και
παράθυρα με μπετούγιες και τζάμια, μια φορά κι έναν καιρό υπήρχε νερό και ρεύμα και δημόσια διοίκηση, μια φορά κι έναν καιρό υπήρχαν δέντρα με πουλιά, καφενεία
με ανθρώπους που έπιναν τσάι και καφέ και συζητούσαν, μια φορά κι έναν καιρό υπήρχε άνεμος που έφτανε απ’ το ποτάμι ώς τη θάλασσα κι αν το κύμα ήταν κλειστό έφτανε
ώς τη Ράφα, μια φορά κι έναν καιρό οι κάτοικοι στη Γάζα ζούσαν όμορφα και ειρηνικά και γελούσαν και χόρευαν και κυκλοφορούσαν και ερωτεύονταν και παντρεύονταν
και ευημερούσαν και τα παιδιά πήγαιναν σχολείο κι οι χαρές τους (που δεν είχαν τελειωμό) ανακυκλώνονταν ώς το φεγγάρι, μια φορά κι έναν καιρό ολόκληρη η Γάζα
ένα απέραντο φως που αντανακλούσε την ομορφιά και τη ζωντάνια της στιγμής, μια φορά κι έναν καιρό το προσδόκιμο δεν μπορούσε κάποιος να το περιγράψει ή
να το προβλέψει, μια φορά κι έναν καιρό η Γάζα όλη μια συνοικία, μια γειτονιά, μέχρι που ήρθε ο κατακλυσμός, κι η Γάζα έγινε αεροπλάνο που χάθηκε στην πτήση του
Τήνος, 25 Μαΐου 2024
Gaza
Bhí Gaza ann uair amháin, uair amháin fadó ba chathair é agus sráideanna ann, cearnóga le crainn phailme agus foirgnimh phoiblí agus scoileanna agus tithe ar a raibh doirse agus
fuinneoga is comhlaí is gloine ghlónraithe, uair amháin bhí uisce ag cách agus leictreachas agus riarachán poiblí uair amháin bhí crainn agus éanlaith ann, siopaí caife
agus daoine ag ól tae agus caife, ag cabaireacht, uair amháin bhí leoithne a tháinig ón abhainn go dtí an mhuir agus fiú má ba dhúnta í an tonn, shroichfeadh sí Rafah, uair
amháin mhair pobal Ghaza go hálainn agus go síochánta is gháireadar is dhamhsaíodar is bhogadar thart is thiteadar i ngrá agus phósadar agus bhí rath orthu agus chuaigh na páistí
ar scoil agus dá lúcháir (gan teorainn) rinneadh athchúrsáil chun na gealaí, uair amháin solas fairsing ab ea Gaza scáthán ar áilleacht agus ar spleodar an nóiméid, uair
amháin an té a raibh coinne leis ní fhéadfadh sé cur síos air ná é a thuar, aon cheantar amháin ab ea Gaza uair amháin, comharsanacht, tháinig tuilte ansin, agus deineadh eitleán de Ghaza a cailleadh i lár eitilte
Ní linn féin atáimid ní fhéadfaimis a bheith linn féin mar shampla daoine eile na billiúin díobh na beo is na mairbh do shinsir romhat san áireamh ainmhithe éisc is éanlaith nithe a dhéanann turlabhait istoíche ní linn féin atáimid pláinéid is cóiméid (agus bruscar spáis ar ndóigh)
I mí an Mheithimh, 1949, thug Albert II aghaidh ar an gcianspás ach cailleadh é ar athiontráil dó (ag tagairt atáim ní dá Mhórgacht, Prionsa Mhonacó, ach do mhoncaí saotharlainne) ar an 16 Meán Fómhair, 1959 cailleadh ceithre cinn déag de lucha spáis nílimid linn féin madra strae Rúiseach ab ea Laika thug na Meiriceánaigh Muttnik uirthi chuaigh sí trí thine í féin agus Sputnik 2 d’fhéadfá dul ar aghaidh is ar aghaidh damháin alla, éisc, toirtísí Timothy O’Leary, Ollamh in Harvard a chuir LSD i mbéal an phobail (!) ba dhuine de na luaithspásairí é a thug aghaidh ar an gcianspás i ndiaidh a bháis ní fhéadfá a rá gur linn féin atáimid!
Δεν Είμαστε Μόνοι
Δεν είμαστε μόνοι δεν θα μπορούσαμε να είμαστε μόνοι για παράδειγμα υπάρχουν κι άλλοι άνθρωποι δισεκατομμύρια από δαύτους, οι ζωντανοί και οι νεκροί, συμπεριλαμβανομένων των προγόνων σου ζώα, ψάρια και πουλιά πράγματα που χτυπάνε τη νύχτα, δεν είμαστε μόνοι πλανήτες και κομήτες (και πολλά διαστημικά σκουπίδια)
Τον Ιούνιο του 1949, ο Άλμπερτ ΙΙ βγήκε στο διάστημα αλλά πέθανε κατά την επανείσοδο στην ατμόσφαιρα (Δεν αναφέρομαι στην Αυτού Γαληνότατη Υψηλότητα, τον Πρίγκιπα του Μονακό, αλλά σε ένα εργαστηριακό μαϊμουδάκι) στις 16 Σεπτεμβρίου 1959 δεκατέσσερα διαστημικά ποντίκια χάθηκαν, δεν είμαστε μόνοι Η Λάικα ήταν ένα ρωσικό αδέσποτο σκυλί οι Αμερικανοί την ονόμασαν «Μάτνικ». Η Λάικα κάηκε στο διάστημα μαζί με τον Σπούτνικ 2 θα μπορούσε κανείς να συνεχίσει και να συνεχίσει . . . αράχνες, ψάρια, χελώνες Ο καθηγητής του Χάρβαρντ Τίμοθι Ο’ Λίρι που έκανε δημοφιλή το LSD ήταν ένας απ’ τους λεγόμενους «αστροσταχτοναύτες» που τα υπολείμματά τους εκτοξεύτηκαν στο διάστημα σίγουρα δεν είμαστε μόνοι!
We are not alone we could not possibly be alone for instance other people exist billions of them the living and the dead including your ancestors animals fishes and birds things that go bump in the night we are not alone planets and comets (and lots of space junk)
In June 1949, Albert II went into outer space but died on re-entry (I refer not to His Serene Highness, the Prince of Monaco, but to a laboratory monkey) on September 16, 1959 fourteen space mice perished we're not alone Laika was a stray Russian dog the Americans called her Muttnik. Laika burned up in space along with Sputnik 2 one could go on and on . . . spiders, fish, tortoises Harvard Professor Timothy O'Leary who popularised LSD was one of a bunch of so-called 'ashtronauts' whose remains were rocketed into space we're most definitely not alone!
Mimi German is an American poet and peace activist living in the wilderness of Oregon. She has published two books of poetry, Where Grasses Bend (EyePublishEwe Press, 2023), and Beneath the Gravel Weight of Stars (Poetry Box Press, 2022). Her books, War Poems and Flowers of the Litter will be out in 2024.
WAR POEM #96
All leaves eventually fall From the tree Allowing light To expose the branch We do not fear The tree’s way But open our hearts to it Like a lotus blossoming In the warmth of the sun Teaching us once more How to live like a leaf Falling from its tree
DÁN COGAIDH #96
I ndeireadh na dála Titeann gach duilleog den chrann Is ligeann don solas An ghéag a nochtadh Ní heagal linn Slite an chrainn Osclaímid ár gcroí dó Ar nós na loiteoige a bhláthaíonn Faoi theas na gréine Agus a mhúineann dúinn arís Conas maireachtaint mar dhuilleog Ag titim den chrann
Someone is wandering his camel too is wandering Is he going home? Or is he leaving home? Someone is wandering his camel too is wandering Does he know what day it is what century? Someone is wandering his camel too is wandering It looks like they'll be wandering forever Someone is wandering his camel too is wandering What will yesterday bring, today, tomorrow? Someone is wandering his camel too is wandering
Beneath a crimson sky Searching for the Holy Land
Fánaí Anaithnid
Tá duine éigin ar fán agus a chamall leis ar fán An ag gabháil abhaile atá sé? Nó ag gabháil idir dhá thír? Tá duine éigin ar fán agus a chamall leis ar fán An eol dó cén lá é cén ré? Tá duine éigin ar fán agus a chamall leis ar fán Cheapfá gur ar fán a bheidh siad go deo. Tá duine éigin ar fán agus a chamall leis ar fán Cad a thabharfaidh an lá inné leis an lá inniu, an lá amárach? Tá duine éigin ar fán agus a chamall leis ar fán
Spéir chraorag os a gcionn An Talamh Naofa acu á lorg
Az ismeretlen vándor
Valaki vándorol a tevéje is vándorol. Hazafelé tart? Vagy elmegy otthonról? Valaki vándorol, a tevéje is vándorol. Tudja, milyen nap van ma, melyik évszázad? Valaki vándorol, a tevéje is vándorol. Úgy néz ki, örökké vándorolni fognak. Valaki vándorol. a tevéje is vándorol. Mit hoz a tegnap, a ma, a holnap? Valaki vándorol, a tevéje is vándorol.
Cérbh é príomhscríbhneoir Óráidí Nixon? Ray Price. Tá’s agat anois. Bhí Ray ina bhall de Skull and Bones Ar a dtugtar leis Bráithreachas an Bháis (Bhí George W. Bush ina bhall freisin). Déanann siad bandia darb ainm Eulogia A adhradh. Faoi ghlas áit éigin Tá blaosc Gerónimo acu.
Ach bhí a fhios sin go léir agat, nach raibh Ón rang staire
Uaireanta ceapaim go gcloisim Gerónimo ag méanfach (Caithfidh go bhfuil sé dubh dóite leis féin) Sin is brí leis an ainm Gerónimo, dála an scéil, ‘An té a bhíonn ag méanfach.’
The Skull of Gerónimo
Who was Nixon’s Chief speech writer? Ray Price. Now you know. Ray was a member of Skull and Bones Also known as The Brotherhood of Death (Prominent members include George W. Bush). They worship a goddess Called Eulogia. Locked away somewhere They have the skull of Gerónimo
But you probably knew all that, didn’t you From history class.
Sometimes I think I hear Gerónimo yawning (He must be bored) That’s what his name means, by the way, ”He who yawns.”
THE HARNPAN O GERONIMO
Whae wis Nixon's Heid leid scriever? Ray Price. Nou ye ken. Ray wis a member o Harnpan an Banes Also kent as The Britherhood o Daith ( George W Bush wis anither), They bou doon tae a Goddess Cried Eulogia. Lockfast sumwhaur They hae the harnpan o Geronimo
Bit aiblins ye kent that frae scuil heestorie cless.
Whiles ah'm shair a hear Geronimo gantin ( He maun be scunnert) Yon's the meanin o's nem oniewey, 'He whae gants.'
Agneta Falk Hirschman is a Swedish-born poet, visual artist, editor, translator and activist. Her poetry is translated into many languages, and she’s participated in numerous international poetry festivals. In 2018 she was the recipient of the Regina Coppola International Poetry Award in Italy. Her latest book of poetry, Fall and Fly, was published by Seventh Tangent Press, 2023. She lives in San Francisco.
DANCING ON A WING OF BREATH
The wind brought me here to a hidden corner on a stony beach something about the light the sky, the sea melting in to one, into me the pounding waves sounding like I feel inside and there she is, my mother and all the mothers before her dancing on a wing of breath becoming my breath and nothing can stop me now from releasing a torrent of tears for all those who’ve passed and for those wandering over the earth in search of a home where bombs don’t fall.
AG DAMHSA AR EITE ANÁLA
An ghaoth a thug anseo mé chuig cúinne rúnda ar dhuirling rud éigin faoin solas an spéir, an mhuir ag leá ina chéile, ionamsa torann na dtonn ar nós mar a mhothaímse istigh agus siúd thall í, mo mháthairse is na máithreacha uile roimpi ag damhsa ar eite anála ar m'anáilse anois í agus níl aon ní a stopfadh anois mé ó rabharta a chaoineadh ar son na marbh agus ar son na n-anamacha go léir atá ar fán agus áit á lorg acu atá saor ó bhuamaí.
There are 15 million widows in India living in abject poverty (out of 46 million widows in total). Usually I'm blind to statistics. They fail to interest me or move me in any way. But 15 million widows in India living from hand to mouth? This statistic grabbed me. I couldn't shake it off. Like a torn sari my morning was ripped apart.
I wanted to send each one of them a poem but I have no Hindi Marathi Kannada Bangla Tamil Gujarati Malayalam Assamese or any other Indian language
Would a poem in Irish comfort even one widow out of 15 million? Irish, for God's sake! Even an Irish widow would find precious little comfort in it. A cup of tea (or chai) . . . maybe there might be some solace in that if offered lovingly.
Feidhm na Filíochta
15 milliún baintreach atá san India agus iad beo bocht (as 46 milliún baintreach ar fad). Ní bhacaimse le staitisticí de ghnáth. Níl spéis dá laghad agam iontu ní chorraíonn siad mé. Ach 15 milliún baintreach is gan acu ach ón lámh go dtí an béal? Rug an staitistic sin orm is ní fhéadfainn é a chur díom. Bhí an mhaidin pollta anois mar sháírí stróicthe.
Theastaigh uaim dán a chur chuig gach duine acu ach níl aon Hiondúis agam ná Maraitis Cannadais Beangáilis Tamailis Mailéalaimis Asaimis ná teanga ar bith eile de chuid na hIndia
An dtabharfadh dán Gaeilge faoiseamh ar bith do bhaintreach amháin as 15 milliún? Gaeilge, as ucht Dé! Is beag sólás a bhainfeadh baintreach Éireannach as. Cupán tae (nó chai) . . . seans bheadh sólás éigin ansin dá réiteofaí di go grámhar é.
Gabriel Rosenstock
THE YISSES O MUSARDRIE
Thair'r 15 mullion weedaes in India leevin in puirtith. (oot o 46 mullion in aw). Fir ordnar, statistics ur nocht tae me. The gate thair on means nocht thae muive me naewey. Bit 15 mullion weedaes in India leevin haun tae mou? This a cudnae turn a deefie tae. Ah cudnae shak it. Lik a riven sari ma day wis riven apairt
Ah wintit tae ootpit tae ilkane a pome. Bit a hae nae Hindi Marathi Kannada. Bangla Tamil Gujarati Malayalam Assames or onie ither Indian leid.
Wid a pome in Irish gie easement tae e'en yin weedae oot o thae mullions? Irish, Fegs! E'en an Irish weedae wud fund nae easement in't. A wee cuppa (or chai)...aiblins that micht be sum easement gin it wis gien wi luve.
Scots: John McDonald
Οι χρήσεις της ποίησης
Υπάρχουν 15 εκατομμύρια χήρες στην Ινδία ζώντας σε έσχατη φτώχεια (από 46 εκατομμύρια χήρες συνολικά). Συνήθως είμαι τυφλός στις στατιστικές. Δεν με ενδιαφέρουν δεν με ταράζουν με οποιονδήποτε τρόπο. Αλλά 15 εκατομμύρια χήρες στην Ινδία ζώντας με ελεημοσύνες; Αυτή η στατιστικό μου την έδωσε. Δεν ξεπερνιέται εύκολα. Σαν σκισμένο σάρι το πρωί μου διαλύθηκε. Ήθελα να στείλω στην κάθε μία ένα ποίημα
αλλά δεν κατέχω τα Χίντι τα Μαράθι τα Κανάντα τα Bangla τα Ταμίλ τα Γκουτζαράτι τα Μαλαγιαλάμ τα Ασαμέζι ή οποιαδήποτε άλλη ινδική γλώσσα
Ένα ποίημα στα ιρλανδικά θα παρηγορούσε ακόμη και μια χήρα από τα 15 εκατομμύρια; Ιρλανδός είμαι, για όνομα του Θεού! Ακόμη και μια Ιρλανδή χήρα θα έβρισκε λίγη άνεση σε αυτό. Ένα φλιτζάνι τσάι (ή chai). . . ίσως μπορεί να υπάρχει κάποια παρηγοριά σ’ αυτό αν προσφερθεί με αγάπη.
Now that death creeps all around And the pecans are bursting their shells, I hide within Hebrew. Nothing will befall me in innocent writing, Nothing will befall me If I am absorbed into the letters, If I don't go outside the line - Shrunk to a small dot Stuffed inside an O Or in the belly of a C, A semi-colon dripping tears Like a captive.
Beloved holy tongue - Now that everything is in its own time And everything now is horror, When the orchard stretches out And the earth is plowed, I do only what Rilke says: Let beauty and horror happen to me Without thinking That this is the end.
Translated from the Hebrew by Barbara Mann.
Seomra Sábháilte
Agus an bás ag téaltú thart anois is na cnónna peacáin ag pléascadh as a mblaosc Téimse i bhfolach san Eabhrais. Ní imeoidh aon ní orm istigh i scríbhinn shaonta, Ní imeoidh aon ní orm más súite isteach sna litreacha atáim, Mura dtéim thar an líne - Craptha im' phonc beag Sáite isteach in O Nó i mbolg C, Leathstad ag sileadh deor Ar nós cime.
A theanga bheannaithe, a théagair - Anois is gach aon ní ina am féin Agus gach aon ní anois ina uafás, An t-úllord ag síneadh amach Agus an talamh treafa, Ní dheinimse ach de réir Rilke: Ligim don áilleacht is don uafás tarlú dom Gan a shamhlú Gurb é seo an clabhsúr.
Irish: Gabriel Rosenstock
SAUF CHAUMER
Nou thit daith skooks aw aroond an the pecans'r brustin thair shalls ah dern wi'in Hebrew. Naethin wull befaw me in saikless scrievin, naethin wull befaw me gin ah'm oot ower the lugs intae the letters, gin a dinnae gae ootside the line - Shilpit tae a peerie dot Stappit inby an O Or in the wame o a C, a semi-colon blirtin Lik yin jylt.
Lief haly tung - Nou thit awthing's in'ts ain tyme An awthing nou gars us grue, Whan the orchard raxes oot An the yirth is plooed, Ah dae anely whit Rilke tells: Lat bonnieness an grue cum ower me Wi'oot jalousin This is the hinnerend.
Anthony Blinken is a bilingual limerick by Limerick-born Gabriel Rosenstock
~ My name it is Anthony Blinken And lately, dear folks, I've been thinkin': Are we makin' things worse Is America a curse? I dunno, but somethin' is stinkin'!
~ Ní chodlaímse rómhaith istoíche Cloisim olagón géar goirt na gaoithe: In Gaza, sa Liobáin An t-aon phort amháin Anthony! Go deo deo is choíche . . .
ISMAËL DIADIÉ HAÏDARA (born 1957) is a librarian, poet, philosopher, historian and president of the Kati Fund Foundation. A regular speaker, he has an extensive work published with titles such as Le Statut du monde. Nécessité, possibilité et contingence chez Ibn Arabi, Cordoba, 1992; Yawdar Pasha y la conquista saudí del Songhay (1591-1599) Instituto de Estudios almerienses, 1993 y Rabat 1996; L’Espagne musulmane et l’Afrique subsaharienne, éditions Donniya, Bamako, 1997; Les Juifs à Tombouctou, éditions Donniya, Bamako, 1999; Los otros Españoles, mr ediciones, Madrid, 2004; Los últimos Visigodos, rd editores, Sevilla, 2003; Las lamentaciones del viejo Tombo, Maremoto, Málaga, 2006; Abana, Rihla, Córdoba, Almuzara, 2006; Monólogo de un carnero, Árbol de Poe, Málaga, 2012; Zimma, Vaso Roto Mexico, 2014, Madrid 2015; Tombuctú, Andaluces en la ciudad pérdida del Sahara, Almazara, 2015. Tebrae, Cantabria, 2021.
BREVE HISTORIA DE MI VIDA
Tombe la neige. Salvatore Adamo.
Tenía tres estaciones de lluvia en el año de la independencia de este país Tenía seis estaciones de lluvia en el año de la guerra del Norte Tenía nueve estaciones de lluvia en el año del cólera Tenía doce estaciones de lluvia en el año de la gran hambruna Tenía quince estaciones de lluvia en el año de la otra guerra Cuando cayeron los obuses de los yihadistas tenía cincuenta y cuatro años Elegí entre el ataúd y la maleta y me fui con mi hija y mi hijo Me fui como otras cincuenta y cuatro personas en una barcaza Han pasado diez años y todas las noches caen obuses en mis sueños Todas las noches sentado sobre una maleta Yo también espero y cae la nieve Solo cae la nieve.
BRIEF STORY OF MY LIFE
Snow falls Salvatore Adamo *
I was three years old in the year of independence of this country I was six years old in the year of the Northern war I was nine years old in the cholera year I was twelve years old in the year of the great famine I was fifteen years old in the year of the other war When the jihadist shells fell, I was fifty-four years old I chose between the coffin and the suitcase, and I left with my daughter and my son I left my city like fifty-four other people on a barge. Ten years have passed and every night shells fall in my dreams Every night sitting on a suitcase I’m also waiting and the snow falls Only snow falls.
* Belgian-Italian singer
Dírbheathaisnéis Ghairid
Sneachta ag titim Salvatore Adamo *
Trí bliana d'aois a bhíos nuair a bhaineamar neamhspleáchas amach Sé bliana d'aois nuair a bhris Cogadh an Tuaiscirt amach Naoi mbliana d'aois i mbliain an chalair Dhá bhliain déag d'aois i mbliain an Ghorta Mhóir Cúig bliana déag d'aois nuair a tharla an cogadh eile Nuair a thit sliogáin na jiohádach, ceithre bliana is caoga a bhíos Bhí rogha le déanamh, cónra nó cás taistil, D'fhágas le m'iníon is lem' mhac D'fhágas an chathair i mbáirse, ceathrar is caoga eile im' theannta. Deich mbliana níos déanaí, titeann sliogáin gach oíche im' bhrionglóidí Im' shuí ar chás taistil dom chuile oíche Táimse leis ag feitheamh agus an sneachta ag titim gan ach sneachta ag titim
Non, la Terre n’est pas ronde Si la Terre était ronde Cela se verrait Cela se saurait Si la Terre était ronde Il n’y aurait pas, d’un côté, Quelques-uns tout en haut, Et les autres, la plupart des autres, En bas, Souvent même tout en bas… Si la Terre était ronde Aucun pays Ne pourrait se dire Le centre de la Terre Car tous seraient au centre. Et tous les hommes Tout autour de la Terre, Seraient logés à la même enseigne. Mais ce n’est pas le cas Et la Terre va de travers Parce que la Terre n’est pas ronde. En tout cas, Pas encore.
Francis Combes Non, la terre n'est pas ronde, « Si les symptômes persistent consultez un poète », le Merle moqueur 2013 – préface de Bernard Noël
NEIN, DIE ERDE IST NICHT RUND
Nein, die Erde ist nicht rund Wenn die Erde rund wär Säh man das Man wüsste es Wenn die Erde rund wär Gäb es nicht auf einer Seite Ein paar Wenige ganz oben Und die Anderen, die Meisten Da unten Sogar oft ganz unten… Wenn die Erde rund wär Könnte gar kein Land Von sich behaupten Der Mittelpunkt der Welt zu sein Weil alle in der Mitte wären Und alle Menschen Überall auf Erden Wären ebenbürtig Doch so ist es nicht Und die Erde läuft nicht rund Weil sie nicht rund ist Zumindestens Noch nicht
Nein, die Erde ist nicht rund, Übersetzung : Magdalena Kauz
NO, LA TIERRA NO ES REDONDA
No la tierra no es redonda Si la tierra fuera redonda Esto se vería Esto se sabría Si la tierra fuera redonda No abría de un lado, Unos pocos bien en lo alto Y los otros, la inmensa mayoría Abajo A menudo del todo bien abajo … Si la Tierra fuera redonda Ningún país Podría decirse El centro de la tierra, Porque serían todos en el centro. Y todos los hombres Al alrededor de la Tierra, Serían albergados bajo el mismo lema. Pero no es el caso Y la tierra está al revés Porque la tierra no es redonda. En todo caso, No todavía.
Traducción de Nancy Morejón
NÍ CRUINN ATÁ AN DOMHAN
Ní cruinn atá an Domhan Dá mbeadh an Domhan cruinn chífea é bheadh a fhios agat é Dá mbeadh an Domhan cruinn ní bheadh cuid againn ag an mbarr, i leataobh, agus an chuid eile, an móramh, ag an mbun, thíos ar fad go minic . . . Dá mbeadh an Domhan cruinn ní thabharfadh tír ar bith lár an Domhain uirthi féin mar bheadh gach aon rud sa lár agus an cine daonna go léir gach áit ar fud an Domhain sa bhád amháin . . . Ní mar sin atá, áfach agus téann an Domhan amú mar nach cruinn atá an Domhan. Ní go fóill ar aon nós.
Alan Dent was born in Preston in 1951. He has lived in Lancaster, Hull, Rouen, Kent, Wales, Blackburn and now is once more in Preston. He has published the following collections of poetry: Bedtime Story, Antidotes to Optimism, Corker, Who, Town and Schrodinger’s Women. He has also published two volumes of translations from French: When The Metro is Free and Common Cause, the latter by Francis Combes. His work has appeared in Ambit, The Echo Room, The Wide Skirt, New Statesman, Prop, Tears In The Fence, Fire, Still and many other magazines. His plays include The Joy of Banking, Lap Dancing In The Gulag and The Lift. He is famous for his excoriating editorials in his magazines The Penniless Press and Mistress Quickly’s Bed; the former is now a web mag which incorporates the Northern Review of Books, founded by Dent in 2010. He has also published many reviews, mainly of contemporary poetry, and has been described by a leading contemporary poet as “a brilliant critic.” Under various pen-names he has published almost a hundred short stories.
Lomadh an Fhéir
Má tá do thigh leagtha is do theaghlachsa marbh leanaí is mamónna ina luí ar an ngaineamh an domhan bun os cionn - faoi do bhun atá an spéir níl ann ach an IDF ag lomadh an fhéir; sceimhle na hoíche, éadóchas an lae gan lámh chúnta in aice leat, inniu ná inné nuair b'fhearr leat ná aon rud a bheith sínte sa chré níl ann ach an IDF ag lomadh an fhéir; ocras ar pháistí, déantar anraith as féar gan uisce ar fáil dóibh ná fliuchadh a mbéil an dorchadas forleathan ag breacadh an lae níl ann ach an IDF ag lomadh an fhéir; ina mbáisteach tá buamaí ag titim ón spéir ar dheis is ar chlé níl ann ach piléir an IDF ag méanfach is straois orthu go léir níl ann ach na Síónaigh ag lomadh an fhéir dílleachtaí ag caoineadh in ard a gcinn go géar is cabhraíonn SAM leis na daoine atá ag lomadh an fhéir.
MOWING THE LAWN
by Alan Dent
If your house is destroyed and your family lies dead your babies and grandmothers left where they bled if your world is upended and you’re lost and forlorn it’s only the IDF mowing the lawn; when your nights pass in terror your days in despair if you reach for a hand and no one is there when death’s your best friend and you wish you weren’t born it’s only the IDF mowing the lawn; when your children are starving you make soup from grass not a sole drop of water for your dry mouth, alas, when life is all darkness no promise of dawn it’s only the IDF mowing the lawn; when the bullets fly wildly and there’s nowhere to run and the bombs fall at random as the goons have their fun and the IDF laugh, sneer, lie back and yawn it’s only the Zionists mowing the lawn; and the righteous US as the poor orphans mourn runs to help Zionists mowing the lawn.
Cao Shui（Chinese: 曹谁;pinyin: Cáo Shuí), also Shawn Cao (born in June 5, 1982), is a Chinese poet, novelist, screenwriter and translator. He is a representative figure of Chinese Contemporary Literature. He leads “the Greatpoeticism” movement.
In his Manifesto of Greatpoem, he aims to integrate sacred and secular cultures, oriental and occidental cultures, ancient and modern cultures in Chinese literature. In 2008, he resigned from a newspaper and traveled around Tibet and Xinjiang, which is the center of Eurasia or the World in his view. His novels Secret of Heaven trilogy tells the whole developing history of human civilization. His most notable works includes Epic of Eurasia, the already mentioned trilogy and King Peacock (TV series). In his works, he extracts elements of various ancient human civilizations, from Babylon to the west to Judea, Egypt, Greece, to the east to Persia, India, China, and uses these elements to reconstruct a new Utopian human homeland, which always described as Eurasia, the Top of the Tower of Babel or Kunlun Mountains (Heaven Mountains). So far forty books of Cao Shui have been published, including ten poem collections, four essay collections, ten novels, twenty fairy tales, four translations and one hundred episodes TV series and films. He has won more than 50 literary awards worldwide, including the 1st Chinese Young Poet Award, the 4th Cao Yu Cup Drama Award, the Apollo Dionysus Award of the 8th Italian Rome International Academy of Contemporary Poetry and Art Award, the 12th Russian Golden Knight Award, and the Top Ten Public Figures of the 5th Chinese Poetry Spring Festival Gala, etc. His works have been translated into English, Italian, Spanish, French, German, Swedish, Portuguese, Danish, Polish, Russian, Hungarian, Croatian, Slovenian, Turkish, Arabic, Japanese, Korean, Hindi, Nepali, Vietnamese, Tibetan, Mongolian, etc. He has been invited to participate in the 30th Medellin International Poetry Festival, the 26th Havana International Poetry Festival, the 14th Kritya International Poetry Festival in India and the 4th Qinghai Lake International Poetry Festival. He is a member of China Writers Association, China Film Association and China Poetry Society. He is also chief editor of Great Poetry, deputy editor in chief of World Poetry, secretary general of Boao International Poetry Festival and vice president of the Silk Road International Poetry Festival. Currently he lives in Beijing, and works as a professional writer and screenwriter.
Maighdean Mhara
Siúlaim liom agus iasc leonta á iompar agam Níl ach slí d'iasc amháin sa phota Conas a leonadh an t-iasc? Tá freagra uaim Ní nochtfar an fhírinne gan scrúdú Chuireas sléibhte díom, aigéin agus na mílaoiseanna Ghearr aibhneacha móra trí ghleannta doimhne Oíche amháin, thiteas isteach i dtuile Léim an t-iasc as an bpróca Ní fhéadfainn ach stánadh air agus é ag imeacht Deirtear gur duine lách mé Deineadh maighdean mhara den iasc agus cailíní aimsire lena taobh gealach ag dul ar gcúl ina suí ar mo cheann suas leis an maighdean mhara i dtreo na gealaí titeann braon cumhra drúchta anuas sínimse mo lámha amach chun breith air i bhfaiteadh na súl, tuigimse an saol atá thart, an saol atá le teacht
Member of Vietnam Writers’ Association. Born in Hung Yen Province, Vietnam. Ambassador of Ukiyoto Publisher of Canada to Vietnam. Founder and Head of Hanoi Female Translators. 9 National and International Awards in literature. Published 25 books of prose, poetry, essay in Vietnam, Italy, Canada, Hungary, USA, Romania (Book titles: The Unknown, The Insidious Sister, Road of Love, Orphaned Waves, The Weird Dream, From Red River to Blue Danube, Two Moons …) Her poems and short stories have been translated into many foreign languages (17): English, Italian, Korean, Russian, Marathi, Hindi, Romanian, Hungarian, Spanish, Portuguese, Nepali, Uzbek, French, German, Turkish, Chinese, Montenegrin.
Cuthach
Tá sé ceart go leor, lig amach é Béic orm Scaoil amach an cuthach atá ionat le fada id' chroí, i d'aigne i ngach cill díot béic orm, bain leas as na súile feargacha sin agat, úsáid na lasracha lonracha a dhónn mo chraiceann, m'fholt, m'anam Cuthach an domhain seo cuthach na harrainge is an éadóchais mothúcháin a cuireadh faoi chois ó bheith ag iompar ár bpeacaí dúchais . . .
Agus is saor atá tú Agus béarfad barróg ort lem' lámha creathacha Agus imeoidh an uile dheoir Ina sruth isteach sa Danóib Ghorm,
isteach san Abhainn Dhearg, iontu go léir Agus leáfaimid san abhainn sin Ag rith isteach sa chruinne de shíor Is deoir ollmhór sinn scaipthe ar fud na cruinne.
LA COLÈRE
C’est bon, laisse-la sortir Crie-moi dessus Libère la rage aveugle qui s’est accumulée depuis longtemps dans ton coeur, ton esprit chacune de tes cellules Simplement crie-moi dessus use de tes yeux en colère, Utilise le feu, et la lumière qui brûle ma peau, mes cheveux, mon âme La colère de cette terre la colère de la douleur et du désespoir des sentiments refoulés de tant porter les péchés d’être un humain… Et tu seras libre Et je te serrerai dans mes bras tremblants Et toutes les larmes couleront dans le courant du Danube Bleu, dans la rivière Rouge, dans tout Et nous nous fondrons dans cette rivière Restant pour toujours à couler dans l’univers Nous sommes une larme géante dispersée dans l’univers.
Kieu Bich Hau La colère, traduction de Francis Combes
Le chien aboie à l’écho de la montagne qu’il lui rende son aboiement – Tu sais, le chien moi aussi j’ai aboyé à mes rêves, à mes amis, mes quatre murs et même mes dieux, si j’en avais eu je leur aurais aboyé dessus –
J’ai aboyé à la vie espérant qu’elle me rendrait l’écho de mon premier cri J’ai aboyé moi aussi
Alexis Bernaut
GADHAR
Tá an gadhar ag tafann ar mhacalla an tsléibhe: "Tabhair mo thafann ar ais dom"
An bhfuil a fhios agat, a ghadhair, Tá tafann déanta agamsa, leis, tafann ar mo chuid taibhreamh, ar mo chairde, ar na fallaí na déithe féin, dá mbeadh a leithéid agam bheinn tar éis tafann orthu.
Tá tafann déanta agam ar feadh mo shaoil ag súil go bhfaighinn ar ais macalla óm' chéad bhéic
Have a Nice Day is a protest poem in Irish and English by Gabriel Rosenstock.
Bíodh Lá Deas Agat!
(do Guy Debord 1931-1994)
Tá go maith, ag ceannach roinnt bananaí san ollmhargadh atáim, spadhar éigin, ní foláir. Is é lá breithe Harry Belafonte é (bheadh an céad bainte amach aige). I mo pháiste dhom, bhíos meallta go mór ag an leagan aige den Banana Boat Song: ‘Tar, a fhir an tailí, agus comhair mo bhananaí . . .’ Ar aon chuma, ag tabhairt aire do mo ghnó féin a bhíos agus mé ag smaoineamh (ní coir atá sa smaointeoireacht, tá súil agam): Cuir i gcás go mba fhear geal é Belafonte agus Zelenskyy (‘y’ amháin nó dhá ‘y’?) ina fhear gorm. An mbeadh léamh eile againn ar an stair? Íocaim as na bananaí. Ba chóir bananaí a reo, dar leis an Dr Alan Mandell. Toisc . . .? Breathnaigh air, tá sé ar YouTube.
‘Tar, a fhir an tailí, agus reoigh mo bhananaí!’ Ní fhuaimníonn sé i gceart. Chuirfinn geall nach reofadh Harry Belafonte a chuid bananaí go deo). Ar aon nós, cá rabhas? Sea go deimhin, íocaimse as na bananaí (neamhreoite), Féachaim as eireaball mo shúl ar shuaitheantas ainm an chúntóra: Galyna . . . Úcránach? Cá bhfios. Níl tuairim agam dáiríre. ‘Bíodh lá deas agat,’ ar sise. Táim im’ staic anois aici. An ag dul as mo mheabhair atáim? Ní bhraithim ar fónamh in aon chor. ‘Deas? Lá deas? Cad is brí le deas? Bíodh lá deas agam agus an cac á bhualadh as a chéile ag cách – gan stad! Báibíní! Búm! Buamáilte! Búm! Búm!’ De bharr cleachtaidh, is dócha, arsa Galyna arís ‘Bíodh lá deas agat!’ ‘Lá deas, an ea? Conas sa foc a . . .’ ‘Lucht Slándála! Cuntar amach 5. A Lucht Slándála? Cuntar amach 5, le bhur dtoil!’ Réchúiseach go maith atá sí ina thaobh. An dtarlaíonn sé seo go minic? Sna deich soicind sula dtagann na gardaí slándála – na tatúnna sin, th’anam ’on ducs!- Samhlaím go gcloisim curfá Bíodh Lá Deas Agat! Iad ar fad á rá, sa stíl Iamácach:
Deochanna boga Cnónna Anraithí Lorgaí sicín Glantaigh: Bíodh lá deas agat! Iógart Uibheacha
Agus an criú slándála do m’iompar chun siúil . . . Dhera féach, tá jab le déanamh acu is dócha.
Is beag Béarla atá ag ceachtar acu. Laitvigh? Eastónaigh? Úcránaigh? Cá bhfios. ‘Samhlaigh go raibh Zelenskyy ina fhear gorm,’ arsa mise leo. Is dócha go gceapann siad gur duine le Dia mé. Chun a gceart a thabhairt dóibh, ní rabhadar ródhian orm. Cá bhfios ná gur chabhraíos-sa leo, ar bhealach éigin, Nár thugas rud éigin dóibh le déanamh, nár dheineas an saol níos eachtrúla dóibh? Leagann siad síos mé tuairim is leathchéad slat ó dhoras an ollmhargaidh taobh le reilig bheo ollmhór tralaithe slabhra orthu go léir bonn airgid uathu go géar a scaoilfeadh saor iad. Deinim banana a thairiscint do na gardaí agus féachann siad orm faoi mar ba bhreab é. Ní deir siad ach, ‘Bíodh lá deas agat!’ Agus brostaíd leo, ag freagairt do ghlaoch eile: ‘Lucht Slándála! Cuntar amach 11. A Lucht Slándála? Cuntar amach 11, le bhur dtoil!’
HAVE A NICE DAY!
(for Guy Debord 1931-1994)
OK, I buy a few bananas at the supermarket on a whim, more or less. It’s Harry Belafonte’s birthday (He’d be 100). As a child, I was enthralled by his rendition of The Banana Boat Song: ‘Come, Mr Tally Man, tally me banana . . .’ Anyway, here I am minding my own business, and thinking (it’s not an offence to think, is it?) What if Belafonte were white and Zelenskyy (one ‘y’ or two?) black? Would history have turned out differently? I pay for my bananas. Dr Alan Mandell says you should freeze your bananas. Why? It’s on YouTube. Have a look. ‘Come, Mr Tally Man, freeze me bananas!’ Nope. Doesn’t sound right. Bet Harry Belafonte never froze his bananas). Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes, I pay for my (unfrozen) bananas, glancing at the name badge on the check-out person: Galyna . . . Ukrainian? Could be. ‘Have a nice day,’ she says. I freeze. Am I going bananas? I must say, I don’t feel well at all. ‘Nice? Nice day? What do you mean nice?’ I say. ‘Have a nice day While people are bombing the shit out of each other – every goddam hour! Babies! Boom! Bombed to bejasus! Boom Boom!’ Galyna, out of force of habit, I guess, says ‘Have a nice day!’ ‘How the fuck can I have a nice day when . . .’ ‘Security! Checkout 5. Security? Checkout 5, please!’ She seems quite cool about it. Does this happen a lot? In the 10 seconds before two security guards arrive – you never saw such tattoos! – I imagine I hear a chorus of Have a Nice Day! They’re all crooning it, kind of Jamaican style:
Soft drinks Nuts Soups Chicken legs Detergents: Have a nice day! Yoghurts Eggs As the security lads lead me away . . . Ah sure look, they’re only doing their job, I guess.
They haven’t much English between them. Latvian? Estonian? Ukrainian? Who knows. ‘Imagine Zelenskyy was a black guy,’ says I. They probably think I’m nuts. To be fair, they were nice enough as it happens. Maybe I helped out, in some small way, you know, gave them something to do, made life a little bit more interesting for them? They plonk me down, about 50 yards from the entrance to the supermarket beside a massive living graveyard of trolleys with a dangling chain on each all hungry for a coin to release them.
I offer the guards a banana. Their attitude is, ‘We don’t take bribes.’ All they say is, ‘Have a nice day!’ And scurry off in answer to another call: ‘Security! Checkout 11. Security? Checkout 11, please!’
O zi plăcută!
lui Guy Debord 1931-1994
Ok, cumpăr cîteva banane de la supermarket oarecum dintr-un capriciu. Este ziua de naștere a lui Harry Belafonte (ar fi împlinit o sută de ani). În copilărie mă vrăja în cu Cîntecul bananei: „ Hei, Mr. Tally Man* vino să-mi cîntărești banana. . . . . .” În fine, îmi văd de treabă, gîndindu-mă (a gîndi nu jignește pe nimeni ori . . . ?) la ce s-ar întîmpla dacă Belafonte ar fi alb și Zelenskyy (cu un singur ‘y,’ sau cu doi?) ar fi o persoană de culoare? Istoria ar arăta altfel? Achit bananele. Dr. Alan Mandell spune că bananele ar trebui înghețate. Cum așa? Este pe You Tube. Priviți. „Hei, Mr. Tally Man, vino să-mi îngheți bananele!” Nu. Nu sună bine. Pariez că Harry Belafonte niciodată nu și-a înghețat bananele! Unde mă aflam, totuși? Oh, da, plătesc pentru bananele (neînghețate) în timp ce privesc ecusonul cu numele persoanei de la casă: Galyna. . . Ucraineancă S-ar putea. „O zi plăcută!”, spune ea. Îngheț. O iau razna? Trebuie să spun că nu mă simt deloc bine. „Plăcută ? Zi plăcută ? Ce înseamnă plăcută?”, zic eu. O zi plăcută? În timp ce oamenii se bombardează– la fiecare nenorocită de oră! Copii! Bubuie! A bubuit, Doamne! Bubuie Bubuie!” Cred că din obișnuință spune Galyna: „O zi plăcută!” „Cum naiba pot să am o zi plăcută cînd. . .” Paza! Verificați 5. Paza? Verificați 5, vă rog! Tare cool trebuie să i se pară treaba asta. Se întîmplă de multe ori? În nici două secunde sosesc doi gardieni– asemenea tatuaje nu ați văzut niciodată! – Îmi imaginez că aud un cor: O zi plăcută! Toți fredonează cîntecul într-un fel oarecum jamaican:
Băuturi nealcoolice Nuci Supe Picioare de pui Detergenți O zi plăcută! Iaurturi Ouă Cînd băieții de la pază mă conduc în altă parte. . . Ah, de bună seamă, își fac datoria, cred.
Nu prea vorbesc în engleză între ei. Letona? Estona? Ucraineana? Cine știe. „Imaginați-vă că Zelenskyy ar fi ‘o persoană de culoare’ ”, zic eu. Ei cred, probabil, că sunt nebun. E drept, au fost destul de drăguți, ca de obicei, poate că i-am ajutat cît de cît, știți, le-am dat ceva de lucru, le-am făcut viața puțin mai interesantă. Și mă iau și mă trîntesc cam la 50 de yarzi depărtare de intrarea în supermarket, lîngă un cimitir viu și întins de cărucioare, fiecare cu un lanț atîrnînd pe el, și toate așteptînd cu lăcomie o monedă care să le elibereze.
Le ofer gardienilor o banană. Și reacționează:„Nu ne lăsăm mituiți.” Atît spun:„ O zi plăcută ! ” Și se grăbesc să răspundă unei alte chemări: Paza! Verificați 11. Paza? Verificați 11, vă rog!
The truth lies within. Look inside! What do you see? Do you not see that it is the heart That is displaced!
Listen! In Sichot Haran Rebbe Nachman of Breslov speaks these lightning words: "You should feel the pain of others in your own heart." Fine! But if the heart is missing, displaced? He continues, "If you can't feel this pain you must strike your head against the walls of your heart." Yes, yes, yes! But if the heart is displaced, if the heart is missing?
Díláraithe
Istigh ionainn atá an fhírinne. Féach isteach ionat féin! Cad is léir duit? Nach léir gurb é an croí Atá díláraithe!
Éist! Sa Sichot Haran Tá na briathra tintrí seo ag Rebbe Nachman: "Ba chóir arraing an duine eile a bhrath i do chroí féin." Go breá! Ach má tá an croí ar iarraidh, díláraithe? Leanann sé air, "Mura mbraitheann tú an arraing sin ni mór duit do chloigeann a bhualadh in aghaidh bhallaí an chroí." Sea, sea, sea! Ach más díláraithe atá sé, más ar iarraidh atá an croí?
The Displaced
The truith liggs wi'in. Leuk thair! Whit dae ye glisk? Dae ye no glisk, it's the hert thit's displaced
Tak tent! in Sichot Haran Rebbe Nachman o Breslov threeps thae lichtnin wurds: 'Ye suid fin the pyne o ithers i yer ain hert.' Fine! Bit gin the hert's amissin, displaced? He threeps on, 'Gin ye cannae fin this pyne ye maun dunt yer heid forenent the wa's o yer hert' Aye,aye,aye! Bit gin the hert's displaced, gin the hert's amissin?
Leagan Béarla na hAlban: John McDonald
Other collaborations between Masood Hussain and Gabriel Rosenstock include Walk with Gandhi, a biographical sketch with haiku for Young Adults (FreeKidsBooks), Love Letter to Kashmir (Cross-Cultural Communications, New York), and Boatman! take these songs from me (Manipal Universal Press, India).
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