2024-07-11

Leander Sukov (POETS OF THE PLANET)

 
 
 


When I was dreaming
a woman came to me.
She was holding a garden
in her hand.
That it was for sale
she whispered.
I paid a price.
The price was my waking.
She went with my sleep.
Just a memory
remained from my slumber
and its world.

Als ich träumte
kam eine Frau zu mir.
Sie hielt einen Garten
in ihrer Hand.
Dass er zu kaufen wäre
flüsterte sie.
Ich zahlte einen Preis.
Der Preis war mein Erwachen.
Sie ging mit meinem Schlaf.
Nur eine Erinnerung
blieb mir vom Schlummer
und seiner Welt.

As ik drööm
kööm en Fru to mi.
Se holt en Goorn
in ehr Hand.
Dat he to köpen weer
wisperde se.
Ik betahlde en Pries.
De Pries weer mien Opwaken.
Se gung mit mien Slaap.
Blot en Beholen
bleev mi vun' Slummer
un sien Welt

Agus mé ag taibhreamh
tháinig bean chugam.
Bhí gairdín aici
ina lámh.
Ar díol a bhí sé
ar sise i gcogar
D'íocas as.
An praghas ná gur dhúisíos.
D'imigh sí i dteannta mo shuainse.
Níor fhan dem chodladhsa
is den domhan sin
ach cuimhne

Leander Sukov is a writer from Hamburg who writes in German and Low German. His work is consistently politically characterised by the goal of a humane, exploitation-free world. Even in his love poems, the reflection of the world is always present. Sukov was vice-president of the German PEN Centre from 2019 to 2021, he is the secretary general of the Louise Aston Society* and the president of the Low German-Frisian PEN Centre (aspiring), which was founded in autumn 2023. In addition to works of fiction, he also writes theatre and literary reviews. He is a member of the federal executive committee of the Writers' Union (VS in ver.di) and is an active trade unionist.

2024-07-10

An Dara Báibil

 


The Second Babel


It is the Age of the Second Babel
we cannot hear our own neighbour
we cannot understand what he says
a dust storm arises
listen!
confusion reigns
we cannot  hear
look!
confusion reigns
we cannot see our own neighbour

An Dara Báibil


Is í Aois an Dara Báibil í
ní chloisimid ár gcomharsa féin
ní thuigimid cad atá á rá aige
éiríonn stoirm dheannaigh
éist!
an domhan ina chíor thuathail
ní chloisimid
féach
an domhan ina chíor thuathail
ní fheicimid ár gcomharsa féin


2024-07-09

Tráth chun Rince


 

Time to Dance

a time to mourn, and a time to dance (Ecclesiastes 3:1-8)
 
There's a time for this
and a time for that
a time for dancing
around the Golden Calf
But what time is this?                     
What is this time for?
What does this time mean
or any other time?
And what does it mean                           
when there’s no time left?
Is Chronos devouring his children?
Devouring the world?
There's no time for this
no time for that
no time for dancing
around the Golden Calf

Tráth chun Rince

tráth chun caointe, agus tráth chun rince (Leabhar Ecclesiastes 3:1-8)   
  
Tá tráth ann chun seo a dhéanamh
Tráth chun siúd a dhéanamh
Tráth chun rince a dhéanamh
Timpeall an Lao Óir
Ach cén tráth é seo anois?
Cad i gcomhair é?                      
Cad is brí leis an tráth áirithe seo
Nó tráth ar bith eile?
Agus nuair nach mbeidh tráth ar bith fágtha?
Cén bhrí a bhainfidh leis sin?
An bhfuil a chlann á slogadh ag Cronas?
An bhfuil an domhan á shlogadh aige?
Ní tráth é chun seo a dhéanamh
Ní tráth é chun siúd a dhéanamh
Ní tráth é chun rince a dhéanamh
Timpeall an Lao Óir

TYME TAE DAUNCE

Thair's a tyme fir this
an a tyme fir that
a time fir jiggin
aroon the Gowden Cauf
Bit whit tyme is this?
Whit's this tyme fir?
whit daes this tyme mean
or onie ither tyme?
An whit daes it mean
whan thair's nae tyme left?
Is Chronos rivin intil's bairns?
rivin intil the warl?
Thair's nae tyme fir this
nae tyme fir that
nae tyme fir jiggin
roon the Gowden Cauf.

Leagan Béarla na hAlban: John McDonald

2024-07-08

Paidir ar son uisce

 

Paidir ar son Uisce


A Íosa,
gheallais
Uisce Beo
do bhean na Samáire
Uisce an Spioraid


Tá ganntanas uisce inniu
ar phobal na Palaistíne
gnáthuisce
uisce le n-ól
uisce chun iad féin a ní
uisce chun cócaireacht a dhéanamh

tá díhiodráitiú ag scaipeadh
agus an galar buinní

tugtar apartheid uisce anois
ar uisce atá in úsáid mar arm

tá córas cóireála uisce ag teastáil
Ó, a mhac Dé!
An seasfá ar garda
ar eagla go mbuamálfaí é?

Una oracion por el agua


Jesús
Agua viva
fue lo que prometiste
a la Mujer de Samaria
el agua del Espiritu

Hoy la gente de Palestina
necesitan agua
agua ordinaria
agua para beber
agua para lavar sus cuerpos
agua con que cocinar

la deshidratación está extendiéndose
y las enfermedades por diarreas

es lo que se llama el agua del geto
el agua es ahora usada como arma

una planta de tratamiento es necesaria
dulce Jesús
Puedes guardarnos
y asegurarnos que no nos bombarden?

Leagan Spáinnise: Patricia Jiménez


A Prayer for Water


Jesus
Living Water
is what you promised
the woman from Samaria
Water of the Spirit

Today the people of Palestine
lack water
ordinary water
water to drink
water to wash themselves
water with which to cook

dehydration is spreading
and diarrheal disease

in what is called water apartheid
water is now being used as a weapon

a water-treatment plant is needed
sweet Jesus!
Can you stand guard
and ensure it won't be bombed?

2024-07-07

Machnamh an Ainrialaí ar an tSaoirse

 

The Anarchist's Vision of Freedom


thorns . . .
forming a crown
thorns caused
by the intense suffering
of man's royal ego

thorns . . .

they can never cause
anything but suffering

when nations, tribes
and individuals
assert non-brotherhood
non-sisterhood
thorns sink deeper
and deeper
cutting through flesh and bone
to marrow and pith
until the world writhes
and screams
in the bondage of possessions
and illusions

thorns . . .

throw off your crown
embrace your brother and sister
be free of suffering


Machnamh an Ainrialaí ar an tSaoirse


dealga . . .
an choróin spíne
dealga
a fhásann as géarfhulaingt
ego ríoga an duine

dealga . . .


ní chruthaíonn siad riamh
ach fulaingt

nuair is é an neamhbhráithreachas
an neamhshiúrachas
a chuireann náisúin is treibheanna
chun cinn
gabhann na dealga
níos mó
agus níos mó
tríd an mbeo is tríd an gcnámh
go smior is go smúsach
go dtí go dtosnaíonn an domhan
ag scréachaíl is ag lúbarnaíl
ina sclábhaí ag a chuid maoine
is a chuid seachmall

dealga . . .

bain díot an choróin
beir barróg ar do dheartháir, do dheirfiúr
bí saor ón bhfulaingt

THE ANARCHRIST'S VEESION O SCOWTH


jaggies...
wrocht intae a croun
jaggies brocht aboot
bi the odious dool
o man's ryal ego

jaggies...

thair wey's dool an pyne
whan nations, clans
an chiels whae cum the peter ower
threep non-britherhood
non-sisterhood
jaggies slump ower the hurdies
deep in ower the hurdies
sneddin throuch flaish an bane
tae mergh an pith
till the warl thraws
an skirls
i the bondage o thingums
an geegaws

jaggies...

fling aff yer croun
oxter yer brither an sister
win free o dool an pyne!

Leagan Béarla na hAlban: John McDonald



2024-07-06

Treibheanna i mBun Cogaíochta

 

Treibheanna i mBun Cogaíochta


Iarraimis ar an mBúda
a bheith ina Phríomh-Idirbheartaí
i measc treibheanna atá i mbun cogaíochta.
Cén fáth nach n-iarrfaimis?
Is léir
nach bhfuil ar chumas
uachtaráin Mheiriceá
idirbheartaíocht fhiúntach a dhéanamh:
Jimmy Carter
George H. W. Bush
Bill Clinton
George W. Bush
Barack Obama
Donald Trump
Joe Biden . . .

Ar fhágas ainm ar lár?
Nach cuma!

Pé créatúr a bheidh mar chéad Uachtarán eile
ar na Stáit Aontaithe, éist
an maródh sé thú mantra Búdaíoch a chanadh?
Om Tare Tuttare Ture Soha


Warring Tribes


Let us ask the Buddha
to act as Chief Negotiator
among warring tribes.
Why not?
Clearly, meaningful negotiation
is beyond the capabilities
of American presidents:
Jimmy Carter
George H. W. Bush
Bill Clinton
George W. Bush
Barack Obama
Donald Trump
Joe Biden . . .

Have I missed one?
Does it matter?

Whatever craythur is going to be the next President
of the United States, listen:
would it kill you
to chant a Buddhist mantra?
Om Tare Tuttare Ture Soha

Tribus guerreras


Preguntémosle al Buda
que actúe como Jefe Negociador
entre las tribus guerreras.
Porqué no?
Claramente, una negociación significativa
está más allás de las capacidades
de los presidentes Americanos:
Jimmy Carter
George H. W. Bush
Bill Clinton
George W. Bush
Barack Obama
Donald Trump
Joe Biden . . .

Se me quedó alguno?
Es importante?

Quien quiera que vaya a ser el próximo Presidente
de los Estados Unidos, escuchen:
les mataría
elcantar un mantra budista?
Om Tare Tuttare Ture Soha

Leagan Spáinnise: Patricia Jiménez

2024-07-05

Dáinín

 

Dáinín

Caithfidh mé treabhadh ar aghaidh
bealach amháin nó bealach eile
Caithfidh tú treabhadh ar aghaidh
bealach amháin nó bealach eile
Caithfidh sí treabhadh ar aghaidh
bealach amháin nó bealach eile
Caithfidh sé treabhadh ar aghaidh
bealach amháin nó bealach eile
Caithfimid treabhadh ar aghaidh
bealach amháin nó bealach eile
Caithfidh sibh treabhadh ar aghaidh
bealach amháin nó bealach eile
Caithfidh siad treabhadh ar aghaidh
bealach amháin nó bealach eile
Caithfear treabhadh ar aghaidh
bealach amháin nó bealach eile
Treabhaimis ar aghaidh!


2024-07-04

Domhan Do-aitheanta

 

 
 
 
Domhan Do-aitheanta

Tá sé ag tarlú níos minice na laethanta seo
dúisímid i ndomhan do-aitheanta
ní aithnímid na naoimh thar na gadhair

féach! éist!
sceamhaíl an domhain mhire


Unrecognisable World

It's happening with increasing frequency
we awake and find ourselves in an unrecognisable world
not knowing saints from dogs

look! listen!
a world gone barking mad

2024-07-03

Paidir ar son na Palaistíne


 

Ealaín: Hans Thoma, Christus als Gärtner (1901) Críost mar Gharraíodóir  (agus keffiyeh le caoinchead Masood Hussain)

Poem-Prayer for Palestine


May there be wheat in abundance
and water
Lord hear us
Lord, graciously hear us
May there be barley in abundance
and water
Lord hear us
Lord, graciously hear us
May there be all manner of fruits and vegetables
and water
Lord hear us
Lord, graciously hear us
May there be dates and olives
and water
Lord hear us
Lord, graciously hear us
May there be peace among us
Lord hear us
Lord, graciously hear us
and water and music and poetry
to wash away the blood
blood of Jew, blood of Arab
blood of the believer, blood of the unbeliever alike
Lord hear us
Lord, graciously hear us!


Paidir-Dhán don Phalaistín


Go raibh cruithneacht ann go rábach
agus uisce
A Thiarna éist linn
A Thiarna, bí ceansa agus éist linn
Go raibh eorna ann go rábach
agus uisce
A Thiarna éist linn
A Thiarna, bí ceansa agus éist linn
Go raibh torthaí is glasraí de gach sórt ann
agus uisce
A Thiarna éist linn
A Thiarna, bí ceansa agus éist linn
Go raibh dátaí agus ológa ann go rábach
agus uisce
A Thiarna éist linn
A Thiarna bí ceansa agus éist linn
Go raibh an tsíocháin linn
A Thiarna éist linn
A Thiarna, bí ceansa agus éist linn
agus uisce agus ceol agus filíocht
a ghlanfadh an fhuil
fuil an Ghiúdaigh, fuil an Arabaigh
fuil an chreidmhigh, fuil an neamhchreidmhigh araon
A Thiarna éist linn
A Thiarna, bí ceansa agus éist linn!

-------------
An ekphrastic bilingual anti-war poem by Gabriel Rosenstock, in Irish and English (with recording)  in response to the ongoing bloody crisis in the Middle East.



2024-07-02

Éist go hAn-Ghéar

 Caitlin Johnstone


             

Éist go han-ghéar le scréachaíl na máthar
agus le seordán na ndrón
Éist go han-ghéar le bréaga fhear na nuachta
agus le tuairt na n-ollscartairí
Éist go han-ghéar leis an tanc agus leis an diúracán
agus iad á n-ullmhú chun catha.
Éist go han-ghéar leis an iasc atá ag fáil bháis
agus na hialtóga torthaí ag titim de chrannaibh de dheasca an teasa
Éist go han-ghéar le ga seá an bhithsféir
agus le holagón na mbundúchasach atá le fada sa chré.
Éist leis an tonnchrith thart ort
agus an tonnchrith istigh ionat.

Is áit bheannaithe é seo.
Is nóiméad beannaithe é seo.
Ní mór duit a bheith urramach,
fiú má tá boladh ón múch sceite is ón láithreán líonadh talún
agus ó na míolta móra atá á lobhadh cois cladaigh
agus ó na corpáin atá á lobhadh i nGaza
Fiú má tá scáileáin ag bladhradh agus bréagadóirí ag gáire
na pápaí póidiam agus bolscairí an Pheinteagáin.
Fiú i measc lucht diostóipe na súl marbh
agus iad ag máirseáil leo tríd an saol seo faoi bhriocht ag fóin chliste
ag an dráma grinn suímh, imeachtaí spóirt, scroideanna, earraí tacair.

Mar sin, éist.
Éist go han-ghéar


Tá teachtaireachtaí ann.
I bhfolach sa chód.
I lár na meiteashonraí.
Ráflaí faoi rud éigin mór.
Rud éigin faoi cheilt laistiar den chabaireacht.
Rud éigin ársa,
ach nach rabhthas ag súil leis.
Éist go han-ghéar, a chara chaoin,
mar glac uaimse é:
istigh sna haigéin atá tachta ag an bplaisteach,
istigh inár n-aigne atá tachta ag na meáin,
istigh inár gcroí atá tachta ag an gcaipitleachas,
istigh inár n-anam féin atá tachta ag an gcalaois,
is ann don leiviatan i gcónaí.



2024-07-01

Soseki

 

 
 
ag teacht le chéile
ag scaipeadh arís
lampróga os cionn na habhann

 nou gaitherin
 nou spreedin
 fireflees ower the watter
                                                    Scots: John McDonald

ahora cosechando
ahora esparciendo
luciérnagas sobre el río
                                                 Spanish: Patricia Jiménez

  τώρα τις βλέπεις
τώρα τις χάνεις
λαμπυρίδες στα νερά
                                                  Greek: Sarah Thilykou
sad se skupljaju
sad razilaze
krijesnice nad rijekom
                  
                                     Croatian: Tomislav Maretić




2024-06-30

Ag Crosbhóthar

 
Pictiúr leis an ealaíontóir Danmhargach Wilhelm Marstrand



Ag Crosbhóthar

Ar chlé nó ar dheis?
Tá sléibhte ar dheis.
Cá bhfios ná go bhfuil ór iontu?
Ní fheicimse faic ar chlé.
Fiántas.
"Cad déarfása, a Sancho Panza?"

"Ar dheis a déarfainnse.
Ach ligimis don chapall is don asal cinneadh a dhéanamh!"

"Gracias! Bíonn claonadh ar dheis i gcónaí sna ridirí fáin.
Ar chlé mar sin!"

At a Crossroad

Left or right?
There are mountains to the right.
Maybe they contain gold?
I see nothing to the left,
A wilderness.
"What say you, Sancho Panza?!"

"To the right, I say.
But let the horse and donkey decide!"

"Gracias!  Knights-errant invariably drift to the right.
Left it is!"

2024-06-13

José Muchnik (POETS OF THE PLANET)



Poet and anthropologist, born on November 2nd, 1945 in a hardware store of Boedo, a district of Buenos Aires-Argentina, the city where his parents, Russian immigrants in these lands, had put down roots. His childhood took place among barrels of plaster and drums of fuel, among migrants waves of diverse latitudes which looked for a place of peace to live. Thirty years later, with the arrival of the military dictatorship, he emigrated in his turn. He lives in France since 1976, got a doctorate in anthropology in the École des hautes études en sciences sociales of Paris. He specialized in the study of local food cultures, going through diverse country of Africa and Latin America. He published numerous books of poetry, novels, anthropological works. Founding member of the Franco-Argentinean group “Traversées poétiques”, of the Collectif effraction, and of the “Crue Poétique” (International movement of artists and poets for a world without walls or barbarism). Organizer of numerous poetic manifestations in Paris and musical poetic shows associating tango and poetry.

QUESTIONS AT SUNSET

My God!
Why do they run?
why do they jostle each other?
why do they kill each other?
To go first?
which way will they go?
which door?
which tunnel?
what illusion?
My God!
Why do they press
their fingers to their foreheads?
Why do they rip
the air with their eyes?
Why do they disembowel each other
with truths?
Why do they grind themselves
with progress?
Brothers!
Where are you off to?

Can’t you see
beyond your noses?
Do you know the skies
behind this fog?
Or the taste of blood
in the moss of the stones?
Brothers
You have already invented
the latest model
you’ve already explored
the rings of Saturn
and the secret of heredity
in tiny chromosomes
So
….
why keep running?
why keep pushing?
why continue killing?
I know that our species
has never known peace
and I know I don’t have
much to offer you

except the edge of this rock
to summon calm

to follow the sun
in its eternal farewell

to gather the light
that remains between the waves

drink in the sky
the last cups of the day

breathe the promises
the sweetest promises of the night
Brothers
I know
I don’t have much to offer you
but perhaps
the sunset

the edge of this rock

and this dry leaf

will help us understand

that there’s no need to run
there’s nothing to rush into
there’s no reason to kill each other
This dry leaf

that falls
lives
casts off its moorings
and surrenders to the waves

not knowing if it will arrive

until dawn

turns to violet

or to turquoise

before sinking
into the memory of the sea.
José Muchnik
from “Poetic Calendar Extraction 2000”, translation from Spanish (Argentina) Gerry Loose

CEISTEANNA AM LUÍ NA GRÉINE

A Dhia na bhFeart!
Cén fáth a bhfuilid ag rith?
cén fáth a bhfuilid ag guailleáil a chéile?
cén fáth a bhfuilid ag marú a chéile?

Le bheith chun tosaigh?
cén treo a raghaidh siad?
cén doras?
cén tollán?
cén seachmall?
A Dhia na bhFeart!

Cén fáth a mbrúnn siad
a méara lena gcláir éadain?

Cén fáth an t-aer
a stróiceadh lena súile?

Cén fáth na hinní
a bhaint as a chéile le fírinní?

Cén fáth a bhfuilid á meilt
ag an dul chun cinn?
A bhráithre!
 Cá bhfuil bhur dtriall?

An bhfuil sibh dall
ar a bhfuil ag tarlú?

An eol daoibh na spéartha
lastall den cheo seo?
Nó blas na fola
ar chaonach na gcloch?
A bhráithre
Tá an gléas is déanaí
ceaptha agaibh cheana
Tá fáinní Shatairn
ar eolas agaibh cheana
agus rún na hoidhreachtúlachta
sna crómasóim is lú
Mar sin
….
cén fáth rith de shíor?
cén fáth brú de shíor?
cén fáth marú de shíor?

Tuigim nach bhfuil taithí ag an speiceas seo againne
ar an tsíocháin
agus tá a fhios agam nach bhfuil mórán agamsa
le tairiscint daoibh

Seachas imeall na carraige seo
chun suaimhneas a ghairm


an ghrian a leanúint
sa scarúint shíoraí aici

an solas a fhanann idir na tonnta
a bhailiú

an spéir a shú isteach
cupáin dheireanacha an lae a ól

na gealltanais a análú
gealltanais mhilse na hoíche
A bhráithre
Tuigim
gur beag atá le tairiscint agam daoibh

ach cá bhfios ná go gcabhródh
luí na gréine linn

imeall na carraige seo

agus an duilleog sheasc seo

chun go dtuigfimis

nach gá rith
nach gá deabhadh a bheith orainn
nach gá a bheith ag marú a chéile

An duilleog sheasc seo

a thiteann
a mhaireann
atá gan cheangal anois
agus í ag géilleadh do na tonnta


gan fhios aici cad atá i ndán di

go n-iompóidh an chamhaoir
corcairghorm

nó turcaidghorm

sula luíonn sí síos
i gcuimhne na mara
[Irish: Gabriel Rosenstock]

2024-06-12

Buson

 

is ceomhar iad na féara
na huiscí ciúin
tráthnóna séimh
Irish: Gabriel Rosenstock
χλόη στην ομίχλη
ήσυχα νερά
ένα γαλήνιο βράδυ
Greek: Sarah Thilykou
треви обвити в мъгла
тихи води
спокойна вечер
Bulgarian: Iliyana Stoyanova
hierbas nubladas
aguas en calma
noche tranquila
Spanish: Patricia Jiménez
maglovite trave
tišina nad vodama
mirna večer
Croatian: Tomislav Maretić
erburi în ceață 
ape netulburate
seară tihnită
Romanian: Olimpia Iacob
雾中的绿草
静谧的水面
万籁俱寂的夜晚
Chinese:Cao Shui

2024-06-11

Haiku & Grianghraf le Jason Symes

 

No space
left for memories . . .
in the cloud
 
níl spás ann
do chuimhní . . .
i measc na néalta

2024-06-10

Najwan Darwish - Life in Mount Carmel



Najwan Darwish
Though I’m right beside it,
I can’t call out to the sea:
neighbor, come join me for coffee.
Instead, my other neighbor Carmel
visits me through the window
without my permission
and never even once
tries to enter through the door
(anyway, it owns the place).
Sometimes church bells reach me
from the depths of Wadi Nisnas,
other times the morning call to prayer
comes quietly from the Istiqlal Mosque
(that the old breeze carries from Wadi Salib),
the Baha’is keep donating,
and filling the city with Persian gardens
that escaped from Shiraz,
and in Kababir,
the followers of Mirza Ghulam Ahmad
maintain their naps of devotion
and hunt the truth in tales,
as for the holy men among the Druze,
their poems reach me from their temple
at the foot of Mount Hermon
like the white headscarves of their women—
the ones that hide a thousand years of darkness.
And I, aimless,
between the mountain and the sea,
I, who follow no one but myself,
what should I do among all these devotees,
here,
where time has found its end?  

Najwan Darwish
Translated from Arabic by Kareem James Abu-Zeid & Nathalie Handal

An Saol Thart ar Shliabh Chairmeil

 
Cé go bhfuilimse díreach in aice léi,
ní thig liom glaoch ar an muir:
a chomharsa liom, ól braon caife im’ theannta.
Ina áit sin, tugann comharsa eile liom, Cairmeil,
cuairt orm tríd an bhfuinneog
gan chead gan iarraidh
agus ní thagann riamh
thar tairseach chugam isteach
(ar aon nós, is leis siúd an áit).
Uaireanta, as duibheagán Wadi Nisnas
sroicheann cloig na heaglaise mé,
uaireanta eile tagann glaoch maidine chun urnaí
go ciúin ó Mhosc an Neamhspleáchais
(a iompraíonn an tseanleoithne ón Wadi Salib),
leanann na Bahá’ígh leo lena gcuid síntiús,
an chathair á líonadh acu le gairdíní Peirseacha
a d’éalaigh ó Shiraz,
agus in Kababir,
bíonn a ndreas codlata deabhóideach
ag lucht leanúna Mirza Ghulam Ahmad i gcónaí
an fhírinne á seilg acu sa scéalaíocht,
maidir leis na fir chráifeacha i measc na nDrúsach,
sroicheann a gcuid dánta mé óna dteampall
ag bun Shliabh Hearmón
mar chaifiríní bána na mban–
na caifiríní a chlúdaíonn míle bliain de dhorchadas.

Is mise, gan treoir,
idir an sliabh agus an mhuir,
mise nach leanann éinne ach mé féin amháin,
cad ab áil liomsa a bheith i measc na móidíní seo go léir,
anseo,
agus ceann scríbe bainte amach ag an am?

                                                                           Gabriel Rosenstock
 

2024-06-09

Haiku by Michael McClintock

 

faoi scáil
sholas an phóirse
leamhan ina chodladh
Irish: Gabriel Rosenstock
u sjeni
svjetiljke na trijemu
spava noćni leptir
Croatian: Tomislav Maretić
en la penumbra
de la luz del corredor
chapola duerme
Spanish: Patricia Jiménez
στον ίσκιο του φωτός 
μέσα κοιμάται
μια νυχτοπεταλούδα
Greek: Sarah Thilykou
i the sheddae
o the loaby licht
a moch doverin
Scots: John McDonald
阴影在蔓延
门灯亮起来
一只飞蛾在沉睡
Chinese: Cao Shui
nell'ombra
del portico illuminato
dorme la falena
Italian: Lidia Chiarelli
à sombra
da luz do terraço
dorme uma traça
Portuguese: David Rodrigues 
в сянката 
от лампата на верандата
заспал молец
Bulgarian: Iliyana Stoyanova


im Schatten
des Verandalichts
eine Motte schlafend

                                German: Ralf Broeker

2024-06-08

Thór Stefánnson (POETS OF THE PLANET)

 Note: not for the fainthearted


 Thór Stefánnson

I have published 18 original poetry books and as many translated volumes into Icelandic, amongst them several anthologies of French-speaking poets outside of France, and of Icelandic poets translated into French. I was the director of French-Icelandic dictionaries.




TÆKNIFRAMFARIR


Þegar tæknin tekur öll völd
og auðveldar okkur ekki lengur
mannleg samskipti,
heldur kemur í staðinn fyrir þau,

við tölum ekki saman
nema gegnum síma eða tölvu
og öll mannleg nánd
verður aukaatriði,

börn leika sér ekki saman,
heldur hvert í sínum tölvuheimi,
og móðir gefur ekki brjóst
nema með athyglina á símaskjánum,

og ef við sjáum ástæðu til
að viðhalda mannkyninu,
verður það aðeins
með glasafrjóvgun,

þá göngum við í björg.

Thór Stefánsson


TECHNOLOGICAL PROGRESS


When technology takes all power
and no more facilitates
human relations,
but replaces them.

When we do not talk anymore together
except by mobile phone or computer
and every human intimacy
becomes secondary.

When children do not play anymore together,
but each one only in his own electronic world,
and a mother does not give her breast
unless her eye is fixed on the mobile screen.

And if we see a reason 
to maintain the human race,
it only will be
by in-vitro fertilization,

then we will be lost.


Thór Stefánsson

DUL CHUN CINN NA TEICNEOLAÍOCHTA


Nuair is ag an teicneolaíocht atá an chumhacht
ar fad agus nuair nach gcuireann sí an caidreamh daonna
chun cinn a thuilleadh ach seasamh isteach
ina áit.

Nuair nach mbíonn comhrá eadrainn níos mó
seachas ar an bhfón póca nó ar an ríomhaire
agus gan ach ról tánaisteach
ag gach dlúthchaidreamh daonna.

Nuair nach mbíonn leanaí ag súgradh a thuilleadh,
gach duine acu ina dhomhan leictreonach féin,
agus nuair nach dtálann an mháthair a cuid bainne
gan a súile a bheith sáite sa scáileán fóin aici.

Agus más mian linn an cine daonna a bhuanú,
trí thoirchiú in vitro amháin,
beidh deireadh linn.


         

2024-06-07

Basho

an blas uaigneach
atá ar an drúcht fionn
ná dearmad go deo é


gustul aparte
de rouă albă să nu-l uiți
niciodată
                                
Leagan Rómáinise: Olimpia Iacob

2024-06-06

Hemant Divate


 Father’s instant imminent death…

1.

The father I knew as a child
Walking, scorpion-like, on his hands
Playfully walking on stilts with big children
And post-retirement, the stroke
Derailing his life


 

2.

No strength left in his limbs
Nor in his body
Unaware when half a morsel
Fell to the ground
Losing his balance, unknowingly
Collapsing while seated
His speech so often incomprehensible to us


 

3.

A sick man, weary of life
And, seeing him live like this
Wearing down slowly
Moment by moment
We too, were soon sick of it all


 

4.

 

Now, I wake with a start
Whenever the phone rings unexpectedly
Always fearing this to be the harbinger
Of my father’s death
Or news that he has fallen where he stood
Shuddering disturbingly
Rolling his eyes, collapsed in the hall
While Mai is busy in the kitchen
And cracked his skull
The blood flowing


 
How could my perplexed mother
Make the connection
Between Father, motionless by the sofa
And his brain—slithered under the table
Or maybe, having collapsed in the toilet
His brain floating, sploshed in the pot
And, as if by rote, Mai unattentively
Pulling the flush
 
What will happen to my brain


 

5.

And every moment I feel
My father should have a quick death
Without him even realizing it


 

6.

Then suddenly I come to know
Father, sitting in his easy chair
Watching cricket
So pleased with India’s victory
That he died in an instant
Just like I had imagined
Without anyone realizing it


 [English version: Mustansir Dalvi]




M’athair ar tí bás tobann a fháil . . .



1.
 

An t-athair a raibh aithne agam air is mé im’ pháisteÉ ag siúl, ar nós scairpe, ar a lámha
Ag siúl ar chosa croise go spraíúil le páistí móra
Agus an stróc a bhuail é tar éis éirí as
A chuir a shaol bun os cionn


2. 

Gan lúth fágtha ina ghéaga
Ná ina cholainn
Ní fhaca sé an blúire bia
A thit ar an urlár
Nuair a baineadh dá chothrom é, gan fhios dó féin
Ag titim ina phleist is é ina shuí
Ba mhinic nár thuigeamar ach corrfhocal uaidh

 

3.

Fear tinn, bréan den saol
Agus, nuair ba léir dúinn
An meath mall
Nóiméad i ndiaidh nóiméid
Bhíomarna, leis, bréan den rud ar fad

  

4.

Anois, dúisím de phreib
Má ghlaonn an guthán gan choinne
Agus eagla orm i gcónaí gurb é teachtaire
An bháis é
Nó gur thit sé as a sheasamh
É ar crith, scanrúil,
Na súile ag casadh, sínte sa halla
Agus Mai gnóthach sa chistin
A bhlaosc scoilte
Ag cur fola go tréan
Conas a dhéanfadh mo mháthair chráite
An ceangal idir m’Athair, ar an tolg gan chorraí
Agus a inchinn a sciorr faoin mbord
Nó b’fhéidir, más sa leithreas a thit sé
An inchinn ar snámh, mar phutóg sa bhabhla leithris
Agus Mai, gan smaoineamh,
Á sruthlú síos.
Cad a tharlóidh do m’inchinnse?


5.
Agus braithimse an t-am go léir
Gur chóir do m’athair bás tobann a fháil
Gan fhios dó féin

6.

Agus, i bhfaiteadh na súl cuirim aithne air
É ina shuí i gcathaoir bhog
Ag breathnú ar an gcruicéad
Agus é chomh sásta le bua na hIndia
Gur cailleadh láithreach é
Mar a shamhlaíos é
Gan fhios don saol

  




I had the honour of transcreating a selection of poems by Hemant Divate some years ago. Available on the Internet Archive:

https://archive.org/details/hemant-divate-poems-in-irish/page/n1/mode/2up

 

2024-06-05

GAZA, a poem by Dino Siotis


 

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.
 
 

 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

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 
 
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, shroisfeadh 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
 
 

2024-06-04

Jesus and the Mudra

Salvator Mundi - Leonardo da Vinci

 Jesus and the Mudra


This is the mudra
I give to you
for the salvation of the world
and all other worlds:
bend the little finger
and the one beside it -
the ardhapataka mudra
as taught to me in India

Íosa agus an Mudra


Is é seo an mudra a thugaimse daoibh
ar mhaithe le slánú an domhain seo
agus na ndomhan eile go léir:
an lúidín a lúbadh
agus an mhéar in aice leis -
an mudra ardhapataka
a múineadh domsa san India

 

Jesus an the Mudra


here's the mudra
ah gie tae ye
fir the warl's salvation
an aw ither warls forby:
boo yer pinkie
an the yin neist tae it  -
the ardhapataka mudra
as learnt tae me in india

                  Béarla na hAlban: John McDonald

 

2024-06-03

SAMHRADH / SUMMER


Joseph Henry Sharp - an campa samhraidh 

    
A bilingual ekphrastic tanka in Irish and English: (5-7-5-7-7 syllables)

spreading across skies
and moving among the trees
summer of our love
      reflected in the rivers
      and in our hearts, belovèd

thar na spéartha leis
is bogann i measc na gcrann
samhradh seo ár ngrá
        le feiscint sna haibhneacha
        is inár gcroí, a thaisce

 

2024-06-02

Sándor Halmosi (POETS OF THE PLANET)

 


Sándor Halmosi (1971), Hungarian poet, literary translator, editor and mathematician, was born and attended grammar school in Szatmárnémeti (Satu Mare, Romania). He lived in Germany for 16 years and graduated from the University of Stuttgart. Since 2006 he has been living in Budapest, Hungary. Besides all his literary activities he gives presentations on tradition, poetry, language, and symbols. He attaches importance to promoting poetry and cultural dialogue, as well as the interconnection of literature and fine arts. In 2016 he started making cloisonné enamel artworks. Halmosi is the founder of many literary and cultural associations, organizer of workshops and salons, member of the Hungarian PEN Club (Budapest) and of the European Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters (EASAL, Paris), founding member of Poets of the Planet international poetry network established in 2023. He published a literary manifesto in February 2020, with the title Ora et labora. Crying-out for Pure Literature. This is an attempt to shine a light on the spiritual crisis of the world, through an authentic poetic stance and the responsibility of the literates – independent of their respective countries, linguistic and social characteristics. He published about 40 volumes in Hungarian and other languages.

HOGY NE ŐRÜLJ MEG


Hogy ne őrülj meg, meg kell őrülnöd minden
nap. Mint a nagy utasszállítók felszállás előtt,
még a kifutópályán, ahogy lefékeznek,
nyitogatják a szárnyakon az életfontosságú
lemezeket, tesztelik a kijelzőket, neked is
meg kell tanulnod karbantartanod a lelked,
naprakészen az érzékenységed, nem kitérni
semmi elől, hagynod, hogy a hitványság,
mint békés falvakon a vörösiszap, átfolyjon
rajtad. Amíg folyik, megtisztulhatsz.
Újra és újra.

UM NICHT WAHNSINNIG ZU WERDEN


Um nicht wahnsinnig zu werden, musst du jeden Tag
wahnsinnig werden. Wie die großen Passagierflugzeuge,
die auf der Landebahn vor dem Abflug abbremsen,
und die lebenswichtigen Platten auf ihren Tragflügeln
kontrollieren und die Displays testen, so musst du auch
lernen deine Seele zu warten, mit deiner Empfindlichkeit
auf dem Laufenden zu sein, vor nichts auszuweichen,
zulassen, dass Niedrigkeit dich, wie Rotschlamm die ruhigen
Dörfer, überläuft. Bis er fließt, kannst du dich bereinigen.
Wieder und wieder.

 © Aus dem Ungarischen übersetzt von Benedek Kovács, Natalia Schmidt und Sándor Halmosi

NOT TO GO MAD


In order not to go mad, you have to go
mad each day. Like the huge passenger
aircrafts before take-off, even on the runway
as they brake they move the crucial panels
up and down on the wings, test the displays,
you also have to learn to maintain your soul,
keep your sensitivity up to date, not to avoid
anything, let the vulgarity flow through you
as the red mud flows through peaceful villages.
While flowing, you can be cleansed.
Again and again.

© Translated in English by Márta Gyermán-Tóth

 

CHUN NACH RAGHFÁ AS DO MHEABHAIR


Chun nach raghfá as do mheabhair, ní mór duit
dul as do mheabhair gach lá. Ar nós na móreitleán
paisinéirí roimh dóibh éirí san aer, fiú ar an rúidbhealach
nuair a bhrúitear na coscáin bogann na painéil bharrthábhachtacha
suas síos ar na sciatháin, déantar an taispeánadh a thástáil,
beidh ortsa foghlaim chomh maith conas d'anam a chaomhnú,
do leochaileacht a choinneáil suas chun dáta, gan aon ní
a sheachaint, ligean don gháirsiúlacht a bheith ina sruth tríot
faoi mar a imíonn an láib dhearg ina sruth trí shráidbhailte séimhe.
Is féidir tú a ghlanadh sa sruth.
Arís is arís eile

2024-06-01

Caitlin Johnstone

 There Was A Time

Caitlin Johnstone


It’s hard to believe there was a time when I didn’t know what a child’s insides look like.
That I didn’t know how limp babies’ limbs go when they are dead,
when they are missing parts of their body,
missing their head,
limbs dangling lifeless as parents hold them in front of the camera,
screaming, crying, pleading, desperate.
There was a time when I didn’t know how it feels to watch a man scream “Free Palestine” while burning alive,
until there was nothing left to scream with and he lost his voice forever,
but still by some power remained standing long after his voice was gone.
I didn’t used to know just how sadistic people can be,
how hateful they can be,
how apathetic they can be toward the suffering of human beings,
or how heroic others can be in times of great need.
I didn’t used to know. Now I do.
And now I sit here, head heavy like lead, tongue limp like a baby’s corpse,
hands feeling older than the stars,
and I don’t know what to do.
There is nothing I can say to make this okay.
There is nothing I can say to make any of this make sense.
This is the civilization we were born into.
This is what our ruling class has decided will be normal,
as the airman said before he burned.
I lift my ancient hands to my sore heart
and say a prayer to the great Whatever
in a desperate plea
for a better world.


Bhí Tráth Ann


Bhí tráth ann, is deacair é a chreidiúint, agus ní raibh a fhios agam cén chuma a bhí ar ionathar linbh.
Cé chomh sleabhctha is a bhíonn a ngéaga nuair a chailltear iad,
nó codanna dá gcolainn a bheith in easnamh,
ceann ar iarraidh,
a ngéaga ar liobarna agus tuismitheoirí á n-ardú os comhair ceamara,
ag scréachaíl, ag caoineadh, ag impí, i ndeireadh na feide.
Bhí tráth ann nuair nár thuigeas conas a mhothaíonn sé breathnú ar fhear ag béicíl
"Saortar an Phailistín" agus é á dhó ina bheatha,
nuair nach raibh gléas béicíola fágtha aige agus a ghuth caillte go deo,
ach trí chumhacht éigin a sheas an fód tar éis dá ghuth a bheith imithe le fada.
Níor thuigeas i gceart go raibh daoine áirithe gan chroí,
lán d'fhuath,
cuma sa riach leo faoi fhulaingt daoine eile,
agus daoine eile ina laochra in am an ghátair.
Ní raibh a fhios agam. Tá a fhios agam anois.
Agus anois táim im' shuí anseo, mo cheann chomh trom le cloch, mo theanga
sleabhctha ar nós corpáin linbh,
mo dhá lámh níos sine ná na réaltaí,
agus n'fheadar cad a dhéanfad.
Níl aon ní is féidir a rá a chuirfidh ar ceal é.
Níl aon ní is féidir a rá chun ciall a bhaint as seo.
Saolaíodh sa tsibhialtacht seo sinn.
Shocraigh an aicme cheannais go mbeadh sé seo normálta,
mar a dúirt an t-eitleoir sular dódh é.
Ardaímse mo sheanlámha go dtí mo chroí
agus seo ag guí mé chun Pé Rud É
ag impí air go géar
domhan níos fearr a chruthú.

 

 

2024-05-31

Sotirios Pastakas (POETS OF THE PLANET)

Sotirios Pastakas

 Sotirios Pastakas (Larissa, Greece, 1954), poet. He studied Medicine in Rome and Psychiatry in Athens. He has published 18 poetry collections. It has been translated into 20 languages and has taken part in international poetry festivals (San Francisco, Sarajevo, Izmir, Rome, Naples, Siena, Cairo, Istanbul, Medellin, Caracas etc.). Four poetry collections (Corpo a corpo, Jorge, Monte Egaleo, Isola di Chios) are published in Italy, where he won the NordSud Prize in 2016, one in the USA (Food Line), and one in Spain (Cuerpo a cuerpo). In 2019 he donated his library to the Municipal Library of Rapsani. He is a member since 1994 of the Greek Writers’ Society and from 2021 to 2023 National Coordinator of the World Poetry Movement (WPM) for Greece. From 2023 member and coordinator of Poets of the Planet (POP) for Greece. Won poetry prize “Makis Lachanas” in Thessalian Poetry Festival 2023.
from FOOD LINE ( Forepaw Press, San Francisco, USA, 2014)
(Translated by Jack Hirschman and Aggelos Sakis)


An apple-core.
Someone was sitting here
biting an apple.
Then he disappeared. The same day
that History recorded three
deaths in the center of Athens.
Someone else at another
spot left his cigarette butt
before he disappeared too.
History only records:
apple-cores, cadavers, ashes.

Croí úill.
Bhí duine éigin ina shuí anseo
is bhain plaic as úll.
Ní fhacthas ó shin é. An lá céanna
nuair a thaifid an Stair
gur tharla trí bhás i lár na hAithne.
Duine eile in áit eile
d'fhág sé nuta de thoitín ina dhiaidh
ní fhacthas eisean ó shin ach oiread.
Níl á thaifeadadh ag an Stair ach:
croíthe úill, corpáin, luaithreach


2024-05-30

Eliot Katz (POETS OF THE PLANET)


Called “another classic New Jersey bard” by the late Allen Ginsberg, Eliot Katz is the author of seven books of poetry, including Love, War, Fire, Wind and Unlocking the Exits, as well as a prose book, The Poetry and Politics of Allen Ginsberg. His most recent poetry book was a free pdf volume posted on his website before the 2020 U.S. presidential election, entitled: President Predator: Poems to Help Make America Trump-Free Again. He was a co-founder, with Danny Shot, of the long-running Long Shot literary magazine, and was a co-editor with Allen Ginsberg and Andy Clausen of Poems for the Nation. In the mid-1990s, he coedited an anthology of U.S. protest poetry, Changing America, that was published as a bilingual anthology in France. Katz, whose late mother was a Holocaust survivor, has worked for many years as an activist for a wide range of peace and social-justice causes, including helping to create several housing and food programs for homeless families in Central New Jersey that remain ongoing.


     

Imagine Again



Imagine
a de-militarized
Middle
East
and
then
imagine
a completely
de-militarized
world.
It’s not
so
easy
these
days,
but
please
try.

Samhlaigh Arís

 
Samhlaigh
an Meánoirthear
dímhíleataithe
agus
samhlaigh
ansin
domhan
atá
dímhíleataithe
ar fad
ar fad.
Níl sé
éasca
na
laethanta
seo,
ach
déan
iarracht
le
do
thoil.

 

2024-05-29

Dunlap

DUNLAP is a bilingual anti-war poem, in Irish and English, written and recorded by  Gabriel Rosenstock (POETS OF THE PLANET)  which remembers Ulsterman John Dunlap,  the man who printed the first copies of the American Declaration of Independence. 

Dunlap

Fear as an Srath Bán
Co. Thír Eoghain
John Dunlap
A chlóbhuail Forógra Saoirse Mheiriceá.

Amhantraíocht in eastát réadach
a dhein fear an-saibhir de.

Ó shin i leith
Tá an tSaoirse á scaipeadh ag Meiriceá
I gcogaí éagsúla.

Agus an Forógra á chlóbhualadh aige
Ar shamhlaigh Dunlap riamh go dtarlódh Cogadh Vítneam
Go dtarlódh Cogadh san Iaráic
Go dtarlódh  . . .
Tá liosta díobh anseo:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_wars_involving_the_United_States
Leanfar de  . . .



Dunlap

A man from Strabane
Co. Tyrone
John Dunlap
Printed the American Declaration of Independence.

Speculation in real estate
Made him a very rich man.

Since then
America is propagating Freedom
In various wars.

Whilst printing the Declaration
Did Dunlap envision the war in Vietnam
The war in Iraq
The war in  . . .
There's a list of them here:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_wars_involving_the_United_States
To be continued . . .

https://www.antiwar.com/



2024-05-28

Vailintín

(après Gertrude Stein)

Is é atá binn
Mo Vailintín
Mo Vailintín
Is é atá binn
Is é atá mín
Mo Vailintín
Mo Vailintín
Is é atá mín
Mín binn binn mín–mo Vailintín!

 

 

2024-05-27

Paidir de chuid na nDúchasach Meiriceánach

       Edward Curtis 

Cabhraigh linn

chun na ceachtanna atá fágtha agat

i ngach duilleog

is i ngach carraig

a fhoghlaim

2024-05-26

Furuike ya


lochán ársa
léim frog
tuilleadh froganna


old pond
a frog jumps in
more frogs

2024-05-25

Beannacht Cherokee

             Edward Curtis 


Beannacht Cherokee

Bainfead an dealg as do chos.

Siúlfaimid cosáin ghréine an tsaoil
tamall eile i dteannta a chéile.

Beidh gean agam ort mar dheartháir, mo chuid fola féin.

Nuair a bheidh ísle brí ort, glanfadsa na deora de do shúile.

Agus más róthrom ort an brón, suaimhneoidh mé an croí pianmhar ionat.


2024-05-24

OPEN LETTER TO ISRAEL

OPEN LETTER TO ISRAEL is an arresting poem by Yahia Lababidi:

Yahia Lababidi, an Egyptian-American thinker and poet, is the author of five books in four genres (amazon.com/author/yahialababidi). Nominated for a Pushcart Prize by World Literature Today magazine, Lababidi has been featured on NPR, Al Jazeera, and in The Guardian, among other places.
Irish transcreation and recording by Gabriel Rosenstock

Litir Oscailte Chuig Iosrael

Yahia Lababidi

 Abair liom, cén cruach a chruaigh do chroíse,
cén eagla a dhein confach thú,
cén fuath a chuir an ruaig ar an trua?
Conas a dhearúdfá
go múnlaítear sinn
de réir mar a throidimid?
Conas d'éirigh leat ar nós cuma liom
faoi staid d'aignese?
Freagrach atáimid as ár naimhde.
Is é is comhbhá ann ná an ról
atá againne nuair a smaoinímid ar a gcruthúsan.
Má phrioctar sinn, nach mbeimid ag cur fola?
Má thugtar nimh dúinn, nach gcaillfear sinn?
Má dhéantar feall orainn, nach mbeidh díoltas uainn?
is geall le comhghuaillithe neamh-chomhfhiosacha iad,
aontaithe sa dorchadas, ina mbac ar an Solas.
Sea, is féidir ár n-anáil a thabhairt ar iasacht do smaointe, ach na hidéil —
An tSíocháin, an Ceart, an tSaoirse — is gá ar saol ar fad a chaitheamh leo,
 agus, iad siúd atá cráite ag na hidéil sin,
ní mór dóibh dul i bpáirt leis an umhlaíocht.
Aisteach, fuath á chumasú ag fuath eile;
is geall le comhghuaillithe neamh-chomhfhiosacha iad,
aontaithe sa dorchadas, ina mbac ar an Solas.
Sea, is féidir ár n-anáil a thabhairt ar iasacht do smaointe, ach na hidéil —
An tSíocháin, an Ceart, an tSaoirse — is gá ar saol ar fad a chaitheamh leo,
agus, iad siúd atá cráite ag na hidéil sin,
 ní mór dóibh dul i bpáirt leis an umhlaíocht.
 D'fhéadfadh an fhírinne agus an coinsias a bheith mar
chuileoga móra trioblóideacha —
scuab i leataobh iad, seo ar ais iad, agus a gcrónán níos glóraí fós,
30,000 anam caillte, dhá dtrian díobh ina mná agus ina leanaí …
ní féidir neamhaird a dhéanamh de na figiúirí damanta sin.
Gan trácht ar nithe nach féidir a thomhas sa tslí chéanna:
an damáiste déanta don chomh-shícé, don mhuinín, don suan.
Bíodh deireadh leis an tromluí. Tabhair ár n-aislingí ar ais dúinn, le do thoil.
Is féidir tosnú as an nua, arís; caithfear.
Cad is gaois ann ach athchuairt ar an tsoineantacht.
          
Transcreation in Irish and recording: GR