Ar an lá seo, 13 Aibreán

Ar an 13 Aibreán, 1939, rugadh Seamus Heaney

Eitleog do Mhichael agus Christopher I gcaitheamh thráthnóna an Domhnaigh sin d’eitil eitleog os cionn an Domhnaigh éadan druma teann, lóchán san aer. Chonac á déanamh í, liath, sleamhain, chnagas í nuair a thriomaigh, bán, righin, cheanglaíos boghanna de nuachtán dá heireaball sé troithe ar fad. Ach anois, féach in airde í ina fuiseoigín dubh í sraonta faoi mar go mba rópa á tharraingt í an téad chun scoil éisc a ardú. Deir cara liom nach bhfuil san anam ach meáchan naoscaí, an t-anam úd ar ancaire, ámh, an téad ag tabhairt uaithi nó ag éirí, tá meáchan iomaire ann a tugadh suas chun na bhflaitheas. Sula dtumann sí sa choill is sula n-éiríonn an líne lag tóg in bhur dhá lámh í, a leaideanna, agus braithigí tarraingt is méarú fréamhaithe fadruballach an bhróin. Is é bhur ndúchas é. Seasaigí anseo romham anois is teannaigí. A Kite for Michael and Christopher All through that Sunday afternoon a kite flew above Sunday, a tightened drumhead, a flitter of blown chaff. I'd seen it grey and slippy in the making, I'd tapped it when it dried out white and stiff, I'd tied the bows of newspaper along its six-foot tail. But now it was far up like a small black lark and now it dragged as if the bellied string were a wet rope hauled upon to lift a shoal. My friend says that the human soul is about the weight of a snipe, yet the soul at anchor there, the string that sags and ascends, weighs like a furrow assumed into the heavens. Before the kite plunges down into the wood and this line goes useless take in your two hands, boys, and feel the strumming, rooted, long-tailed pull of grief. You were born fit for it. Stand in here in front of me and take the strain. Seamus Heaney  Is féidir agallamh le Heaney a léamh anseo:  Tá an leabhar Conlán ar fáil anseo:

Séamus Heaney R.I.P.

An Cheárta

  le Séamus Heaney

Ní heol dom ach doras i mbéal doircheachta.
Lasmuigh, seanfhearsaidí agus fonsaí rotha ag meirgiú;
Laistigh, clingeadh dúir oird ar inneoin,
Spréacharnach ag leathadh gan choinne
Nó siosarnach an chrú nua in uisce ag cruachan.
Ní foláir nó tá an inneoin áit éigin sa lár,
Smutach mar aonbheannach. cearnógach ina tóin,
Suite ansiúd dobhogtha; altóir
Ar a n-ídíonn sé é féin i gcruth is i gceol.
Uaireanta, faoina naprún leathair, ribí ina shrón,
Luíonn ar an ursain, cuimhníonn ar ghliotram
Crúb áit a scalann trácht ina shraitheanna;
Ligeann cnead as agus isteach leis, plab, smeach,
Chun fíoriarann a leathnú, an treifid a shéideadh.

 (The Forge, aistrithe ag Gabriel Rosenstock, sa leabhar Conlán a d'fhoilsigh Coiscéim sa bhliain 1989.An Dara Cló 1995)