haiku

an chéad uair dó

snáthaid mhór a bhlaiseadh - 

 gealbhan óg

its first taste 

of dragon-fly - 

young sparrow

雛すずめ 

初めて に 

トンボ

its furst pree 

o a deil's darnin needle - 

youthie speuggie

Irish & English: Gabriel Rosenstock

Japanese: Mariko Sumikura

Scots: John McDonald

Bashō

faoi cheilt, anaithnid

ar nós na gealaí úire

a bheadsa feasta

dernt an unkent

lik the new muin

ah'll live ma life

(Béarla na hAlban: John McDonald)

κρυφός κι αφανής 

σαν τη νέα σελήνη 

έτσι θα ζήσω 

(Gréigis: Sarah Thilykou)

 

Markéta Luskačová

Ginger ab ainm dó

ceoltóir sráide

thuig sé conas slua a tharraingt

his name was Ginger

a street musician

he knew how to draw a crowd

he wis cried Ginger

a causey busker -

he cud pou a crood

Béarla na hAlban John McDonald 

Markéta Luskačová

lasmuigh d'Eaglais Chríost . . .

a Chríost, an gcloiseann tú

uaigneas an orgáin bhéil?

outside Christ Church . . .

Christ, can you hear

the mouth organ's melancholy strain?

    ootby Christ Church...

    Christ, can ye hearken

    tae the moothie's dowie souch?

 (Leagan Béarla na hAlban: John McDonald)

An talamh naofa

Ó https://museumreplicas.com/sir-godfrey-sword/

The Holy Land, a 'found poem' in English with an Irish translation by 'finder' Gabriel Rosenstock.

Scots version: John McDonald.

From Mark Twain's travelogue The Innocents Abroad (1869)

The Holy Land

 . . .The relic that touched us most 

was the plain old sword of that stout Crusader, 

Godfrey of Bouillon — King Godfrey of Jerusalem. 

No blade in Christendom wields such enchantment as this — 

no blade of all that rust in the ancestral halls of Europe 

is able to invoke such visions of romance

in the brain of him who looks upon it — 

none that can prate of such chivalric deeds 

or tell such brave tales of the warrior days of old. 

It stirs within a man every memory of the Holy Wars 

that has been sleeping in his brain for years, 

and peoples his thoughts with mail-clad images, 

with marching armies, 

with battles and with sieges. 

It speaks to him of Baldwin, and Tancred, the princely Saladin, 

and great Richard of the Lion Heart.

It was with just such blades as these

that these splendid heroes of romance

used to segregate a man, so to speak, 

and leave the half of him to fall one way

and the other half the other. 

This very sword has cloven hundreds of Saracen Knights 

from crown to chin in those old times 

when Godfrey wielded it. 

It was enchanted, then, by a genius

that was under the command of King Solomon

When danger approached its master's tent 

it always struck the shield

and clanged out a fierce alarm upon the startled ear of night. 

In times of doubt, or in fog or darkness, 

if it were drawn from its sheath

 it would point instantly toward the foe, 

and thus reveal the way — 

and it would also attempt to start after them of its own accord. 

A Christian could not be so disguised that it would not know him 

and refuse to hurt him — 

nor a Moslem so disguised that it would not leap from its scabbard and take his life. 

These statements are all well authenticated 

in many legends that are among the most trustworthy legends 

the good old Catholic monks preserve. 

I can never forget old Godfrey's sword now . . 

An Talamh Naofa

 (dán fríotha in The Innocents Abroad le Mark Twain)

 . . . an t-iarsma is mó a chuaigh i bhfeidhm orainn

ná seanchlaíomh pléineáilte an chrosáidí théagartha úd,

Godfrey Bouillon–Rí Godfrey Iarúsailéim.

Níl claíomh sa Domhan Críostaí chomh draíochtúil leis–

claíomh meirgeach ar bith i hallaí móra na hEorpa

atá in ann aislingí rómánsacha a dhúiseacht

in inchinn an té a dhearcann air–

níl claíomh ar bith in ann gníomhartha gaisce a insint

mar é, ná scéalta laochais go léir ón seanré.

Tosaímid ag cuimhneamh ar na Cogaí Beannaithe

nár smaoiníomar orthu leis na cianta,

agus ár gcuid smaointe breactha le híomhánna

agus cathéide orthu, airm ag máirseáil,

cathanna agus léigir.

Meabhraíonn sé Baldwin dúinn, Tancred, Saladan prionsúil,

agus an rí mór Risteard Leonchroí.

Ba le claíomh mar é a dhein na sárlaochra

an duine a scaradh ó féin, mar a déarfá,

a leath dhe ag titim ar dheis

agus an leath eile ar chlé.

Scoilt an claíomh ceannann céanna seo

agus Godfrey á bhagairt.

na céadta Ridirí Saraistíneacha

ó bhaithis go smig sna seanlaethanta.

Bhí ginid ghlinne sa chlaíomh an uair úd

agus an Rí Solamh i gceannas air:

má tháinig namhaid gar do phuball a mháistir

bhuaileadh an claíomh an sciath –

torann a dhúiseodh na mairbh.

In aimsir an amhrais, má bhí ceo ann nó scamaill dhorcha,

níor ghá ach é a tharraingt ón truaill

agus dhíreodh sé laithreach bonn ar an namhaid,

agus bheadh gach aon ní soiléir ansin–

agus thabharfadh sé faoin namhaid a leanúint as a stuaim féin.

Ní fhéadfadh Críostaí a bheith chomh mór sin faoi bhréagriocht

nach n-aithneodh an claíomh é, gan é a ghortú –

ná Moslamach faoi bhréagriocht nach léimfeadh sé

as an truaill agus deireadh a chur leis.

Tá na ráitis seo go léir fíordheimhnithe

in an-chuid finscéalta, na finscéalta is iontaofa

a chaomhnaigh na seanmhanaigh Chaitliceacha.

Ní dhearúdfaidh mé seanchlaíomh Godfrey go deo . . .

THE HALY LAN

...the relic that muived us maist

wis the ordnar sword o yon stoot crusader,

Godfrey o Bouillon - keeng o Jerusalem.

Nae bled in Chrisendie hauds sic glamourie -

Nae bled that hings rousty in Europe's faimilie ha's

Kin cry furth sic veesions o romance

i the harnpan o yin whae goves on't -

Nane whae kin threep o sic chivalric acks

or threep sic campie clash o the kempies o langsyne.

 It mynds a chiel o the Haly weirs

Myndins doverin in's harnpan sin langsyne,

an fous's thochts wi mail-hapt eemages,

wi mairchin airmies,

wi stoors'n sieges.

It threeps tae'm o Baldwin. an Tankred, the princely Saladin,

an the muckle Richard of The Lion Heart.

It wis wi sic bleds as thir yins

thit thae braw heroes o romance

yaised tae sinder a chiel

Leain hauf o him tae faw yin wey

a hauf tae faw the tither

This verra sword hus cloven hunners o Saracen Knights

Frae croon tae chaft in aulden tymes

whan Godfrey waged it.

It wis forespoken, then, bi a genius

Whae wis unner the bidden o Keeng Soloman

Whan the uncannie oncomes the maister's tent

it ayewis struck the shiel 

an dirlt oot a fell alarm on the lugs o nicht.

In tymes o doot, or haar or derkness,

If drawn frae'ts sheath

It wid pynt tae the foe richt awa,

An sae show the wey -

It wid take aff efter thaim on'ts ain acoont.

A Christian nae maitter whit guise yaised it kent

an sae wid nivver herm -

Nor the Moslem Nae maitter hou guised it wid lowp frae'ts scabbert an tak's life.

Thae threepins'r weel qualifeed

In monie legends, maist amang the maist suithfast

the guid auld Catholic monks preserve.

Ah kin nivver foryet auld Godfrey's sword nou...

Nicholas Roerich

Nicholas Roerich

go forth

the lantern of day

is lit

amach linn

tá laindéar an lae

lasta

gae furth

the bouet o day

is lichtit

                     

 (Béarla na hAlban: John McDonald)

αναχωρήστε

η λάμπα της ημέρας

είναι αναμμένη

         (Gréigis: Sarah Thilykou

Namaste!

did you hear?

trees answer Krishnamurti's greeting:

Namaste!

ar chuala tú iad?

crainn ag freagairt do bheannú Krishnamurti:

Namaste!

escuchaste?

los árboles responden el saludo de Krishnamurti:

Namaste!

 (Spáinnis: Patricia Jiménez) 

     did ye hear't?

     treen repone tae Krishnamurti's goam:     

     Namaste!

                         

 (Béarla na hAlban: John McDonald)

Taobhú / Taking Sides

(Sir John Tenniel)

Taobhú

 leis an Raibi Irwin Keller

Táim chun taobhú a dhéanamh inniu.

Táim chun taobhú leis an tSíocháin.

An tSíocháin, nach dtréigfidh mé go deo

fiú má mhúchann gortú

agus fuath guth na Síochána,

nó an goirteamas a leanann cailliúint,

na glórtha a deir 'ceart' is 'éigeart'.

Táimse ag taobhú leis an tSíocháin

nár luadh a hainm ach ar éigean

sa chogadh seo nach féidir a bhuachan.

Teannfaidh mé an tSíocháin le m'ucht,

M'anáilse á roinnt léi

ar eagla go n-áireofaí an tSíocháin

mar chuid de líon na marbh.

Éileoidh mé bearta chun maolú a dhéanamh ar an gcoimhlint

fiú má tá fonn díoltais orm

thar aon ní eile.

Déanfad ar mhaithe leis an tSíocháin é.

Cruthóidh mé réiteach sa mhothar úd

ar a dtugtar cúis agus éifeacht

chun go mbeadh an tSíocháin in ann anáil a tharraingt

ar feadh nóiméid

agus í féin a dhíriú chun na spéire.

Déanfadsa aon ní

chun beatha na Síochána a shábháil.

Análóidh mé trí dheora

ólfad deoch ar mo náire

coinneoidh mé guaim ar mo theanga

ofrálfadsa grá

gan mo cháilíocht chuige sin a thástáil.

Mar sin, ná hiarr orm bratach a chroitheadh inniu

nach bratach na Síochána í.

Ná hiarr orm aintiún a chanadh inniu

nach aintiún Síochána é

ná hiarr orm taobhú a dhéanamh

nach taobhú leis an tSíocháin é.

                                  

                                            An Raibí Irwin Keller

                                                 

(Irish transcreation: Gabriel Rosenstock)

                                                 

TAKKIN SIDES 

The-day ah'm takkin sides.

Ah'm takkin the side o Pace.

 Pace, whilk ah'll niver gie up on

e'en whan its vyce is droont oot

bi skaith an laithin,

wershness o loss,

skirlins o richt an wrang.

Ah'm takkin the side o Pace

whaes nem's haurdly been threepit

i this yuisless weir.

Ah'll haud Pace i ma airms,

an skare ma bouk's braith,

least Pace be jyned

tae the coont o the deid.

Ah'll cry tae thaim fir easement

e'en whan a waant naethiin mair

nor tae git even.

Ah'll dae't

tae ser Pace.

Ah'll redd a space

i the owergrowne

busses o cause an effect

so Pace kin souch

fir a meenit

syne rax fir the lift.

Ah'll dae whit must be duin

tae sauf the life o Pace.

Ah'll souch throuch ma greitin.

Ah'll swallae ma pride.

Ah'll gnap ma tung.

Ah'll bode luve

weel-wared or no.

Dinnae speir me tae waff a flag the day

onless it's the flag o Pace.

Dinnae speir fir an anthem

onless it's a sang o Pace.

Dinnae speir me tae tak sides

onless it's the side o Pace.

                                              

Leagan Béarla na hAlban: John McDonald

Dán Fríotha / Found Poem

Old Delhi 

 

. . .in the middle of the Second World War,

I was walking down the Silver Market of Old Delhi 

when I heard the sound of firing. 

Making my way towards it, 

I turned a corner

and came upon a small crowd

defying an even smaller band of English soldiers. 

An elderly man of the poorest class, 

dressed only in a loin cloth, 

broke away from the crowd

and ran towards the soldiers. 

One of these pointed an automatic weapon towards him, 

but the man did not stop. 

He was shouting 

in a confused and hysterical manner 

and it seemed to me 

that he was not in possession of his senses; 

no doubt, as so often happens with Indians, 

the excitement and the previous shooting

had loosened his grip upon his nerves. He ran on, 

full tilt towards the soldiers. 

The Englishman with the automatic weapon 

pressed the trigger

and the Indian fell prone, 

jerking his legs

in a fashion that was almost ludicrous

and drumming with his fists on the ground. 

In a few moments he lay still, dead, 

with blood spouting 

from a series of wounds on his body.

I noticed that the small of his back 

(for he died on his face) 

was torn in several places

from the bullets which had passed through.

The crowd dispersed. 

They had been demanding that the English leave India. 

The man lay in the roadway 

in his blood, 

until a street-cleaning cart, 

requisitioned for the purpose, 

bore him away.

Found by GR in:

AULD DELHI

...I the mids o the saicont warl weir,

ah wis daunerin throuch the siller mercat o auld Delhi

whan ah heard the brattle o gunfire.

Airtin taewarts it,

roondin a cunyie

a cam on a thrang o fowk

defeein a pickle bourach o suddron sodgers.

A bodach o the puirtith cless,

cleedit anely in a loin claith,

brak frae the crood 

heidin fir the sodgers.

Yin sodger pyntit a gun it him,

bit he didnae stop.

He wis skirlin

he wis aw throuither

fegs ah thoucht

he micht be gyte;

nae doot, as aften kythes wi Indians,

the tirrivee o the umquhile brattle

hud lowst a grup o's mynd. He stooried on.

Straucht fir the sodgers.

The Englishman wi the gun

chirtit the tricker

an the Indian cowpt ower, liggit agroof,

yerkin's legs

gye pawkie lik

an thrummin the yirth wae's nieves.

Or lang he liggit deid,

wi bluid spootin

frae the monie sairs on's bouk.

Ah glisked the sma o's back

(fir he deed on 's neb)

wis riven whaur the monie bullets hud brust throuch.

The crood skailt.

They'd been protestin thit England win awa frae India.

The chiel liggit in the causey

in's bluid

till a scaffie's cairt

brocht in aince errand

cairriet him awa.

(Leagan Béarla na hAlban: John McDonald)

Markéta Luskačová: Brick Lane

(c) Markéta Luskačová

Brick Lane
will no one tell me
what he sings?

Brick Lane
nach n-inseoidh éinne dom
cad atá á chanadh aige?

Brick Lane
wull naebodie mou me
whit he croons?

Béarla na hAlban: John McDonald

Markéta Luskačová: Learphollaigh

 

(c) Markéta Luskačová

ní linn féin atáimid
is ann
do Learphollaigh!

we are not alone
Liverpudlians
exist!

we arnae alane
Liverpudlians
exeest! 

John McDonald

Créamadh Shelley / The Burning of Shelley

Louis Édouard Fournier

Créamadh Shelley

Bhí a chroí trí thine
ar feadh a shaoil
ar son na saoirse

Ina luí marbh
ar thrá san Iodáil
agus é fós trí thine!

The Burning of Shelley

His heart burned
all his life
for the sake of freedom

Dead
lying on a beach in Italy
he still burns!

The Brennin O Shelley

His hert brent
aw's days
fir the sake o scowth

Deid
liggin on tallie saunds
he brenns yit

Scots: John McDonald

Markéta Luskačová: Na Mairbh

(c) Markéta Luskačová

they lie deep
buried in ourselves . . .
the dead

adhlactha
go domhain ionainn féin . . .
na mairbh

they ligg yirdfast
yirdit in oorsels...
the deid
 

(Béarla na hAlban, John McDonald)

Grianghrafadóir Seiceach atá ina cónaí le fada sa Bhreatain í Markéta Luskačová

Markéta Luskačová: Oilithreach

(c) Markéta Luskačová

as though taken down
from a cross  . . .
weary pilgrim

faoi mar a tugadh anuas
de chros é
oilithreach tnáite
 

as tho hystit doon
frae a corse . . .
forfochen peelgrim
 

(Béarla na hAlban John McDonald)

Grianghrafadóir Seiceach atá ina cónaí le fada sa Bhreatain í Markéta Luskačová

Markéta Luskačová: Ifreann

(c) Markéta Luskačová

this world of hours
hell erupts in dust and smoke
unceasingly

an domhan seo
brúchtann ifreann i ndusta is i ngal
gan stad

this warl o oors
hell ootstrikes in stour an reek
unstintinly

(Béarla na hAlban: John McDonald)

Grianghrafadóir Seiceach atá ina cónaí le fada sa Bhreatain í Markéta Luskačová

Markéta Luskačová: Síoraíocht

 

(c) Markéta Luskačová

the long wait
for eternity
not a mouse stirs

feitheamh fada fuar
leis an tsíoraíocht
ní chorraíonn luch

the lang hing on
fir aye
no a moose jees

(Béarla na hAlban: John McDonald)

Grianghrafadóir Seiceach atá ina cónaí le fada sa Bhreatain í Markéta Luskačová

Santoka

 

spéir gheimhridh
brionglóidí i gcéin
imithe ina smidiríní
 

cielo invernal
sueños distantes
rotos por el viento

Leagan Spáinnise: Patricia Jiménez

 

wunter lift  -
faur aff dwams
chattert an flewn awa

Leagan Béarla na hAlban: John McDonald

Seiju

 

níl aon ní ina stad
ar feadh meandair, fiú,
féach dath na gcrann

naethin bides fir a saicont  -
tak tent
o colour in the treen

(Béarla na hAlban: John McDonald)

ni por un momento
las cosas están quietas- testigo
el color en los árboles.

(Spáinnis: Patricia Jiménez)

Bai Jo

 

Bai Jo

Is mise Bai Jo, iasc órga
Coinnímse súil ar na gongshi
Na carraigeacha ealaíonta.
Is aoibhinn leis an aos dána iad!
Deirtear nach bhfuil cuimhne an-mhaith
Ag éisc órga
Ach ní dhéanfaidh mise dearmad go deo
Ar na gongshi!

Bai Jo

I'm Bai Jo, a goldfish
I keep an eye on the gongshi
artistic rocks
beloved of poets.
They say that goldfish
Haven't much of a memory
But I'll never forget
the gongshi!

Bai Jo

Ah'm Bai Jo a gowdfush
ah tak tent o the gongshi
airtistic clints
loo'd bi aw makars.
It's threepit thit gowdfush
dinnae hae muckle myndin
bit ah'll nivver foryet
the gongshi.

(Scots version: John McDonald)

 

Ryota

 

ar nós litir a léifí
arís is arís eile
luí na gréine

Gabriel Rosenstock a rinne an leagan Gaeilge

el atardecer
es una carta leída
muchas veces

Patricia Jiménez a rinne an leagan Spáinnise

sindoon  -
lik a screed
gane ower monie tymes

Leagan Béarla na hAlban le John McDonald

δύση του ήλιου
σαν γράμμα διαβασμένο
χιλιάδες φορές

Sarah Thilykou a dhein an leagan Gréigise