Corona le Paul Celan

Tá an bunleagan ar fáil ANSEO

The Journey/ An tAistear

An tAistear

Os cionn na sléibhte
casann na géanna isteach
sa solas athuair

a scáthchruthanna dubha
á bpéinteáil acu
ar an spéir fhairsing.

Uaireanta caithfear
gach aon ní
a bhreacadh
san fhirmimint

chun teacht
ar an aon líne sin
atá scríofa cheana
ionat.

Uaireanta bíonn gá
le spéir mhór
chun an ding bheag gheal sin
i do chroí féin
Nach bhfuil aon chur síos uirthi
a aimsiú.

Uaireanta bíonn rud éigin nua
scríofa ag neach éigin
i luaithreach do shaoil

le cnámha na maidí dubha
a fhágtar nuair a théann
an tine in éag.

Ní ag imeacht atá tú
ach ag teacht.
 

The Journey

Above the mountains
the geese turn into
the light again

Painting their
black silhouettes
on an open sky.

Sometimes everything
has to be
inscribed across
the heavens

so you can find
the one line
already written
inside you.

Sometimes it takes
a great sky
to find that

small, bright
and indescribable
wedge of freedom
in your own heart.

Sometimes with
the bones of the black
sticks left when the fire
has gone out

someone has written
something new
in the ashes of your life.

You are not leaving
you are arriving.

~ David Whyte ~

Feartlaoi ar Arm Amhas

Bhí mo theanga i mo phluic agam nuair a d'aistríos dán Housman, Epitaph on an Army of Mercenaries, mar nach gcreidimse gur cheart dúinn an Chéad Chogadh Domhanda ná cogadh ar bith eile a chomóradh.

Feartlaoi ar Arm Amhas

Iad siúd is an díon ag titim ón spéir
Is bunsraith an domhain ag teitheadh léi
Leanadar a ngairm amhais go léir
A bpá do ghlacadar is chuaigh in éag.

A nguaillí d’fhulaing an spéir liath
Sa bhearna bhaoil do sheas do chách
Chosnaíodar a raibh tréigthe ag Dia
Tharrtháil an domhan ar son a bpá.

A E Housman

(Freagra a scríobh Hugh MacDiarmid ar dhán Housman)

Amhrán na Cruinne

Earth Song

Listen to things more often than beings.
Hear the voice of the fire, hear the voice of the water,
Listen in the wind to the sighing of the bush:
This is the ancestors breathing.
Those who are dead are never gone;
The dead are not down in the earth:
They are in the trembling of the trees,
In the groaning of the woods,
In the water that runs, in the water that sleeps,
They are in the hut, they are in the crowd.
Those who are dead are not ever gone;
They are in the woman's breast, they are in the wailing of a child,
They are in the burning log and in the moaning rock.
They are in the weeping grasses, in the forest and the home.
Listen to things more often than beings.
Hear the voice of fire, hear the voice of water.
Listen in the wind to the sighing of the bush.
This is the ancestors breathing.

 

(Traditional from Senegal, translator unknown)

Éist le nithe níos minice ná le neacha.
Éist le guth na tine, éist le guth an uisce,
Éist leis an ngaoth is le hosnaíl na dtor:
Análú na sean.
Ní imithe uainn atá na mairbh;
Ní thíos sa chré atá na mairbh:
I gcreathán na gcrann atáid,
In och na gcoillte,
San uisce ag rith is san uisce fá shuan,
Sa bhothán, i measc an tslua,
Ní imithe uainn atá na mairbh;
In ucht na mban atáid, i gcaoineadh linbh,
An lomán á dhó, ochlán na gcloch.
Sna féara ag éagaoineadh atáid, sa bhforaois, sa bhaile.
Éist le nithe níos minice ná le neacha.
Éist le guth na tine, éist le guth an uisce.
Éist le hosnaíl na dtor ar an ngaoth.
Análú na sean.
 

No Title Required / Níl Gá le Teideal

No Title Required

It has come to this: I'm sitting under a tree
beside a river
on a sunny morning.
It's an insignificant event
and won't go down in history.
It's not battles and pacts,
where motives are scrutinized,
or noteworthy tyrannicides.

And yet I'm sitting by this river, that's a fact.
And since I'm here
I must have come from somewhere,
and before that
I must have turned up in many other places,
exactly like the conquerors of nations
before setting sail.

Even a passing moment has its fertile past,
its Friday before Saturday,
its May before June.
Its horizons are no less real
than those that a marshal's field glasses might scan.

This tree is a poplar that's been rooted here for years.
The river is the Raba; it didn't spring up yesterday.
The path leading through the bushes
wasn't beaten last week.
The wind had to blow the clouds here
before it could blow them away.

And though nothing much is going on nearby,
the world is no poorer in details for that.
It's just as grounded, just as definite
as when migrating races held it captive.

Conspiracies aren't the only things shrouded in silence.
Retinues of reasons don't trail coronations alone.
Anniversaries of revolutions may roll around,
but so do oval pebbles encircling the bay.

The tapestry of circumstance is intricate and dense.
Ants stitching in the grass.
The grass sewn into the ground.
The pattern of a wave being needled by a twig.

So it happens that I am and look.
Above me a white butterfly is fluttering through the air
on wings that are its alone,
and a shadow skims through my hands
that is none other than itself, no one else's but its own.

When I see such things, I'm no longer sure
that what's important
is more important than what's not.

 ~ Wisława Szymborska ~

(Poems New and Collected 1957-1997,
trans. S. Baranczak and C. Cavanagh)

Níl Gá le Teideal

Is mar seo atá; mé im shuí faoi chrann
cois abhann
maidin ghréine.
Ócáid gan tábhacht
nach gcuimhneoidh an stair uirthi.
Ní cathanna is comhaontuithe atá anseo againn
ina scrúdaítear ceannfháthanna
is níor maraíodh tíoránach.

Fós féin, táim im shuí cois na habhann seo, gan bhréag.
Agus ós anseo atáim
caithfidh gur thána as ball éigin
agus roimis sin
caithfidh gur nochtas in an-chuid áiteanna,
díreach ar nós cloíteoirí náisiún
sular chrochadar a gcuid seolta.

An meander féint tá a chúlra méith aige,
Aoine aige roimh an Satharn
Bealtaine aige roimh Mheitheamh.
Is ann d’fhíor na spéire aige siúd
chomh cinnte is atá radharc ina ghloiní ag an marascal.

Poibleog atá sa chrann agus fréamhacha anseo aige le fada.
Is í an Raba an abhainn; ní inné a scaird sí aníos.
An chonair trí na sceacha
ní seachtain ó shin a buaileadh í.
Caithfidh gur shéid an ghaoth na néalta anseo
sula scuabfaidh sí chun siúil arís iad.

 Is bíodh is nach bhfuil mórán ag titim amach thart anseo
níl an domhan gann ar mhionghnéithe dá dheasca sin.
Tá sé chomh fódúil is chomh fíor
is a bhí agus é gafa ag treibheanna fáin.


Ní comhchealga amháin atá faoi bhrat tosta.
Ní corónú amháin a leanann lucht coimhdeachta na réasún.
D’fhéadfadh go mbeadh cuimhní ar réabhlóidí ag rabhláil thart
ach bíonn púróga ubhchruthacha amhlaidh is an bhá á timpeallú acu.
Is casta agus is dlúth í taipéis na gcúinsí.
Fuáil na seangán san fhéar.
An féar fuáilte sa talamh.
Patrún toinne á ghreanadh ag cipín.

Is mar sin domsa anseo ag breathnú thart.
Féileacán bán ag eiteallaigh os mo chionn tríd an aer
agus is leis féin amháin iad na sciatháin,
is scinneann scáil trí mo lámha
agus ní aon ní eile í ach í féin, ní le héinne eile í ach léi féin amháin.

Ar fheiceáil dom na nithe sin, nílim cinnte a thuilleadh
an bhfuil an ní tábhachtach
níos tábhachtaí ná an ní atá gan tábhacht.

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:

zu dritt/ threesome/ tríonóidín

Dán le Michael Augustin san iris Poetry Ireland Review/ Iris Éigse Éireann, Uimh 112.

zu dritt

Komisch,
sagt Maria zu Josef,
als wir noch zu zweit waren,
hat uns das Christfest
nicht die Bohne interessiert.
Bei Jesus,
sagt Josef zu Maria,
da gebe ich dir recht!
Der kleine Bengel hat unser Leben
ganz schön verändert.

threesome

Isn’t it funny,
says Mary to Joseph,
how we never cared much
about Christmas
when there were just the two of us?
Be Jaysus,
you’re right,
says Joseph to Mary,
that little brat has certainly
changed our lives!

tríonóidín

Nach ait an obair é,
arsa Muire le hIósaf,
níor bhacamar
leis an Nollaig mórán
nuair nach raibh ann
ach an bheirt againn.
Dar Cníops,
tá an ceart agat,
ambaiste, tá an dailtín sin tar éis
an saol ar fad a athrú orainn!

Ar an lá seo Márta 26

Ar an lá seo Márta 26, 1892, cailleadh Walt Whitman.

Dán ómóis dó scríofa ag Cathal Ó Searcaigh, mórfhile ag caint le mórfhile. Is féidir an bundán éachtach a léamh sa leabhar An tAm Marfach ina Mairimid (Arlen House 2010):

To Walt Whitman

for Adil Aouji

As usual, Walt, here I am reading your litany of joy as the grass makes an appearance in Mín a’ Leá.
A shower of rain spurting growth, your words bring the hues and urgency of spring flowing through my imagination.
I can hear your gentle laughter behind the words as I utter your love poems. You need but beckon: what I wouldn’t give to be in your arms. I’m not saying we are blood relations, but we are linked by craft and by leanings.
Brother, give me your hand, tramp of the road, and we will take words on a walk, with an agile leap of the mind, let’s take the air, you take the high road and I’ll take the low road and the poem between us.
Brother give me your hand. We’ll roam over the vast range of your contemplation and cross the mighty flood of your thought. Out there in the sunny booley of your hope, we’ll stretch our limbs awhile in comfort. Let’s take the luscious juices from the sun.
Out there in the purple evening of the hills, dear one, we’ll discover the America of our desires.

II

Poet of vision, poet of prophecy, green omniscient poet, your campfire illumines eternity.
Poetry for you had no boundaries. You were drawn to immensity.
You beheld the spirit’s playful spume in oceans, the spill of a boy’s seed on starstruck autumn nights.
Beloved god that needed no theology.
Poet of homage. Poet of streaming expansiveness. You honoured the great-hearted order of the cosmos. You could feel the living pulse that nurtured the blade of grass, that conducted the cycle of the spheres. Nothing was too big or too small for your canticle of creation.
You were at home in each limb of the dancing universe.
Your imagination took a seven-league leap from one world to the next. Your poem made safe the path to the abyss.
Your book is as humble as ditch grass, as ambitious as the swell of the sea.
It is my scripture of delight, gospel of joy, full-throated choir, book of wisdom.

III

Your company lifts my heart, Walt, as I run the gauntlet, as blows are struck. The mills of life grind rough and smooth.
Nor was your own life a bed of roses. You had your detractors in their hundreds. And like myself, the love of young men brought you down.
They bad-mouthed you, the evil-hearted ones, proclaiming your poems – your poems exuding grace – were nothing but line after line of vice and temptation.
But you never betrayed your own word. You, the kind-hearted one who couldn’t harm a midge, you gave it to them well and good in words of poetry. The wild scream that challenged them in hymns of love. The love that could not speak its name uttered itself in fountains of grace.
Poet all-powerful, caress me now in the sacred bosom of your words.
Protect me from evil detractors, the pigeon-hearted and the righteous, the scary whited sepulchures.
Protect me, Walt, from the gang that tried to take your name away from you. They and their kin are still creating mischief.
Free me from the daughters of treachery and the sons of trickery whose perverted ways have coated my tongue with their scum so that it is hard for me now to raise my voice in the bardic company where I belong.
Give me your gift, Walt, to give every word its true weight, and may every verb strike home so that the barkings of  malefactors are rammed back down their throats.

IV

I am reading your litany of delight as grass peeps out in Mín ’a Leá and you, brother, buried in Camden.
But your poem is hale and hearty, voice of spring rising in the green leaves of your humanity.
The world is full of exasperation and malice, and warring factions fill the earth and skies. Factions of faith, tribes of terror!
You saw more than enough of battle gore, Walt, as you nursed soldiers in their final throes, in the bloody years of civil war.
You were reminded, more than ever, as you carried out the corporal works of mercy, that our lot was useless unless we showed what it is to be good neighbours with everyone from Brooklyn to Ballybuddy.
A world of exasperation and malice, Walt, but inspired by your poem I look to the peeping grass; tender grass of brotherhood; rough grass of prophecy; ditch grass of integrity; fragrant grass of truth.
I read your litany of delight, a bad moon on the rise, the bones of the old world have become stale, a new age of misery about to be born. And yet, Walt, lovable brother, you forged a fire that brightens my life tonight. Even now, its glow is palpable.
Your book is the green sod on which I stand alone.

Ar an lá seo 16 Márta

Ar an lá seo, 16 Márta, 1892, rugadh César Vallejo.

Do mo dheartháir, Miguel In memoriam A dheartháirín, táim im shuí amuigh ar an mbinse os comhair an tí agus cruthaíonn do neamhláithreacht folús síoraí. Is cuimhin liom go dtéimis ag spraoi thart faoin am seo, agus mamaí ár muirniú: “Ach, a bhuachaillí . . .” Téim i bhfolach anois, mar a dheineas fadó, na paidreacha tráthnóna sin i gcónaí, agus súil agam nach dtiocfaidh tú orm sa pharlús, sa halla, sna dorchlaí. Téann tusa i bhfolach ansin agus nílimse in ann teacht ort. Is cuimhin liom go raibh deora linn, a dheartháir, le linn an chluiche sin! Miguel, chuais i bhfolach oíche amháin i mí Lúnasa, tamall roimh bhreacadh an lae; ach in áit a bheith ag gáire is tú i bhfolach, bhís uaigneach. Agus do leath-chroíse ó na tráthnónta caite sin tá sé traochta anois gan teacht ort. Agus titeann scáil anois ar m’anam. Éist, a dheartháirín, nocht tú féin anois gan mhoill. Ceart go leor? D’fhéadfadh imní a bheith ar mhamaí.

Gujarati anthology, e-book NOW AVAILABLE AR FÁIL ANOIS

Ar fáil ó/Available from: Kobo Books

Díolaim shuaithinseach de nuafhilíocht na Gúisearáitise a thiomsaigh an file Dileep Jhaveri. An t-eagrán Gaeilge seo in eagar ag Micheál Ó hAodha i gcomhar le Gabriel Rosenstock.

Emblazoned with a breathtaking cover by Gulam Mohammed Sheikh, this scintillating anthology of contemporary Gujarati poetry gleaned by poet Dileep Jhaveri now finds a distant home in this volume of Irish-language translations, by various hands, edited by Mícheál Ó hAodha

Dhá Dhán le Wang Wei

Teachín na mBambúnna

I m'aonar sna dlúth-bhambúnna, im shuí
ag seinm ar mo liúit is mé ag crónán dom féin.
Ar fán is ar fuaidreamh, cé a thabharfaidh faoi ndeara mé
ach an ghealach lán is í ag lonrú?

Fál na bhFianna

Níl neach le feiscint i measc na gcnoc tréigthe,
ní chloistear anois ach macalla an chomhrá.
Solas na gréine frithchaite ar ais sa choill
is i ag taitneamh arís ar an gcaonach glas.

Wang Wei

Li-Young Lee: Become Becoming

Wait for evening.
Then you’ll be alone.
ait for the playground to empty.
Then call out those companions from childhood:
The one who closed his eyes
and pretended to be invisible.
The one to whom you told every secret.
The one who made a world of any hiding place.
And don’t forget the one who listened in silence
while you wondered out lout:
Is the universe an empty mirror?  A flowering tree?
Is the universe the sleep of a woman?
Wait for the sky’s last blue
(the color of your homesickness).
Then you’ll know the answer.
Wait for the air’s first gold (that color of Amen).
Then you’ll spy the wind’ barefoot steps.
Then you’ll recall that story beginning
with a child who strays in the woods.
The search for him goes on in the growing
shadow of the clock.
And the face behind the clock’s face
is not his father’s face.
And the hands behind the clock’s hands
are not his mother’s hands.
All of Time began when you first answered
to the names your mother and father gave you.
Soon, those names will travel with the leaves.
Then, you can trade places with the wind.
Then you’ll remember your life
as a book of candles,
each page read by the light of its own burning.

~ Li-Young Lee (Behind My Eyes) ~

Fan leis an tráthnóna.
Beidh tú leat féin ansin.
Fan go mbeidh an clós súgartha folamh.
Glaoigh ansin ar chompánaigh d’óige:
An té a dhún a shúile
is é ag ligean air nach bhfeicfí é.
An té ar inis tú gach aon rún dó.
An té a dhéanfadh domhan de chró folaigh ar bith.
Is ná dearmad an té a d’éist leat go ciúin
is tú ag déanamh iontais os ard:
An scáthán folamh í an chruinne? Crann faoi bhláth?
An é atá sa chruinne bean faoi shuan?
Fan le gorm deireanach na spéire
(dath an chumha atá ort).
Beidh an freagra agat ansin.
Fan le tús an óir san aer (dath Áiméan).
Feicfidh tú ansin coiscéimeanna cosnochta na gaoithe.
Smaoineoidh tú ansin ar an scéal a thosaíonn
le páiste ag dul ar strae sa choill.
Leantar á lorg is an scáth ag méadú
ar an gclog.
Agus ní hí aghaidh a athar í
an aghaidh laistiar den chlog.
Is ní hiad lámha a mháthar iad
na snáthaidí laistiar de shnáthaidí an chloig.
Cuireadh tús leis an Am go léir nuair a d’fhreagair tú den chéad uair
do na hainmneacha a thug do mháthair is d’athair ort.
Taistealóidh na hainmneacha sin ar ball i dteannta na nduilleog.
Malartaigh áit leis an ngaoth ansin.
Is ansin a chuimhneoidh tú ar do shaol
mar leabhar coinnle,
An uile leathanach á léamh faoi sholas a loiscthe.

Don Bhliain Úr: To the New Year -- W.S. Merwin

To the New Year

With what stillness at last
you appear in the valley
your first sunlight reaching down
to touch the tips of a few
high leaves that do not stir
as though they had not noticed
and did not know you at all
then the voice of a dove calls
from far away in itself
to the hush of the morning

so this is the sound of you
here and now whether or not
anyone hears it this is
where we have come with our age
our knowledge such as it is
and our hopes such as they are
invisible before us
untouched and still possible

~ W.S. Merwin ~

(Present Company)

Don Bhliain Úr

A leithéid de chiúnas farat
sa deireadh is tú á nochtadh sa ghleann
an chéad gha gréine uait ag síneadh anuas
chun barr  na nduilleog ard a phógadh is ní chorraíd
faoi mar nár thugadar faoi ndeara é
is nach raibh puinn cur amach acu ort
is glaonn guth colmáin ansin
as réimse ann féin i gcéin
chun na maidine seo faoi thost

mar sin, is é seo do shondas-sa
anseo anois pé acu an gcloistear
nó nach gcloistear é, táimid tagtha
go dtí seo lenár ré
agus lenár n-eolas mar atá sé
agus ár ndóchas mar atá sé
os ár gcomhair. dofheicthe,
gan teimheal,  ar bís

Talamh Bheannaithe

from Real Thirst: Poetry of the Spiritual Journey, by Ivan M. Granger

Lig don fhís sin
den fhairsinge
atá ionat
tú a fhágaint
i d'fhothrach glórmhar.


Tiocfaidh oilithrigh
is samhlóidh siad
an teampall breá
a sheas anseo tráth
is ní thuigfidh siad



                         gurb é an scrios
                         a dhein talamh bheannaithe
                         den mhá lom seo


Let the vision
of the vastness
you are
leave you
in glorious
ruins.

Pilgrims will come
to imagine
the grand temple
that once stood,
not realizing

                    the wreck
                    made this empty plain
                    holy ground.

Twameva Mata, Chapita Twameva

Twameva Mata, Chapita Twameva. Twameva Bandhu, Cha Sakha Twameva. Twameva Vidya, Dravinum Twameva. Twameva Sarvam Mama Deva Deva.

Tusa mo mháthair, is is tusa m'athair Is tusa mo ghaol, tusa mo chompánach, Is tusa m'eolas, is is tusa mo shaibhreas Is tusa gach a mbaineann liom, a Thiarna

Dán & Aistriúchán/ Poem & Translation

NOLLAIG

Tá na fámairí imithe i gcéin,
an chuach agus an traonach
imithe ó dheas chuig an teas
ach tá tusa anseo go fóill,
a spideoigín, ag déanamh ceoil
ar thairseach lom na Nollag.
Tá mise agus tusa linn féin
ag canadh go teasaí amhráin
bheaga bhroinndearga uchtaigh,
a choinníonn caor sa chroí
i ndúlaíocht seo an gheimhridh.

CATHAL Ó SEARCAIGH (Gúrú i gClúidíní, CIC, 2006)

DECEMBER

Summer visitors have gone away
the cuckoo and the corncrake
southwards flown to warmer climes
but you, dear one, have stayed behind,
little robin, chirping
on December’s  threshold bare.
All alone the two of us here
singing songs lustily
red-breasted songs defying doom –
a sod aflame in the heart
of wintry gloom.

Cead dul i dtír/Landen dürfen

Landen dürfen

Ich nannte mich
ich selber rief mich
mit dem Namen einer Insel.
Es ist der Name eines Sonntags
einer geträumten Insel.
Kolumbus erfand die Insel
an einem Weihnachtssonntag.
Sie war eine Küste
etwas zum Landen
man kann sie betreten
die Nachtigallen singen an Weihnachten dort.
Nennen Sie sich, sagte einer
als ich in Europa an Land ging,
mit dem Namen Ihrer Insel.

Permission to land

I named myself
I it was who called herself
after an island.
It’s the name of a Sunday
on a dreamed-up isle.
Columbus invented the isle
on a Christmas Sunday.
It was a coastline
somewhere to land
one can step ashore
the nightingales sing there at Christmas.
Name yourself, someone said
when I went ashore in Europe,
after your island.

Cead dul i dtír

Thugas
thugas-sa féin
ainm oileáin orm féinig.
Is ainm é ar Dhomhnach
ar oileán a aislingíodh.
Ba é Colambas a d’fhionn an inis
ar Dhomhnach Nollag.
Líne an chósta ab ea í
áit éigin le teacht i dtír
is féidir seasamh ann
canann filiméala ann um Nollaig.
Tabhair ainm d’oileáin ort féin
arsa duine éigin liom
nuair a thána i dtír san Eoraip.

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Aus/From/As

Hilde Domin

Bittersüßer Mandelbaum

Bitter-sweet Almond Tree

Crann Almóinní milis agus searbh

Ausgewählte Gedichte

Selected Poems

Rogha Dánta

Translated into English by Hans-Christian Oeser

Gabriel Rosenstock a d’aistrigh go Gaeilge

Tá sé tamall go Tiobraid Árann

Tá fógra in airde i dTiobraid Árann a deir:

 You’ve Come a Long Way.

Níl a fhios agam an mbeadh Trodairí na Treas Briogáide róshásta leis an bhfógra céanna.

Ar aon nós, tá stair aisteach ag baint le hamhrán máirseála na Sasanach It’s a Long Way to Tipperary. Foilsíodh leagan Cornaise de sa bhliain 1916! Aistríodh go Cannadais í chomh maith agus chloisfeá fós á chanadh é in Karnataka na hIndia faoin teideal Namma Tipparahalli balu Doora. (Ciallaíonn halli ‘sráidbhaile’ sa Channadais).

It's a long way to Tipperary,
It's a long way to go.
It's a long way to Tipperary
To the sweetest girl I know!

Goodbye, Piccadilly,
Farewell, Leicester Square!
It's a long long way to Tipperary,
But my heart's right there.

Tá sé tamall go Tiobraid Árann
Tá sé tamall is léir.
Tá sé tamall go Tiobraid Árann
Chuig an spéirbhean ins an spéir

Slán leat, Piccadilly,
Slán leat, Leicester Square!
Tá sé tamall go Tiobraid Árann
Ar m'anam, mo léir!

Le híoslódáil saor in aisce: Rogha Dánta K. Satchidanandan

Mar chuid dem fheachtas chun cnuasaigh áirithe a chur ar fáil saor in aisce, tá dánta K. Satchidanandan ar fáil anois (cliog ar an nasc), duine de mhórfhilí na hIndia agus na hÁise Thoir Theas trí chéile.

Anamimirce
is ea an fhilíocht a aistriú …

K. Satchidanandan

Gheal an Ghaois

Chuardaíos riamh is choíche
is d’éiríos as ansan
is sheasas caol díreach
i m’fhear go ciúin
os comhair na Gréine amach
is í ag dreapadh
na spéire anonn ar maidin.
Gheal an ghaois ionam
arís is arís eile
is líon m’aigne

Georg Feuerstein, Dawn of Wisdom