José Muchnik (POETS OF THE PLANET)

 José Muchnik

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]

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

Haiku & Grianghraf le Jason Symes

 

No space

left for memories . . .

in the cloud

 

níl spás ann

do chuimhní . . .

i measc na néalta

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
 

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

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.


         

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

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

 

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
 

 

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

 

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

 

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

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.