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...

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)

DÁN FRÍOTHA / Walt Whitman (Found Poem in Collected Prose)

 THE WHITE HOUSE

Walt Whitman
le Thomas Wilmer Dewing

 

(A found poem, extracted from the prose by Walt Whitman)

I wander about a good deal,
sometimes at night under the moon.
Tonight took a long look at the President's house.
The white portico —
the palace-like, tall, round columns,
spotless as snow
 — the walls also —
the tender and soft moonlight,
flooding the pale marble,
and making peculiar faint languishing shades,
not shadows —
everywhere a soft transparent hazy,
thin, blue moon-lace, hanging in the air —
the brilliant and extra-plentiful clusters of gas,
on and around the facade, columns, portico,
 — everything so white, so marbly pure
 and dazzling, yet soft
 — the White House of future poems,
and of dreams and dramas,
there in the soft and copious moon —
the gorgeous front,
in the trees, under the lustrous flooding moon,
full of reality, full of Illusion —
the forms of the trees, leafless, silent,
in trunk and myriad angles of branches,
under the stars and sky —
the White House of the land,
and of beauty and night —
sentries at the gates, and by the portico,
silent, pacing there in blue overcoats —
stopping you not at all,
out eyeing you with sharp eyes,
whichever way you move.

Réalachas

Ní ceart smaoineamh ar leith

nó sraith de smaointe

a chaitheamh i dtraipisí

díreach ar an gcúis

nach bhfónann siad 

don chine daonna.

Má tá smaoineamh ann

caithfear na geataí a oscailt dó.

Mar, má dhúnann tú na geataí

brúfaidh an smaoineamh isteach

nó ar nós na cuileoige san fhabhalscéal

sciorrfaidh sé isteach

gan fhios don saol.

An réalachas sa litríocht

cuir i gcás.

Nuair a nocht sé ar dtús

bhí goimh ar an saol

is a mháthair.

Cén fáth ar gá dúinn

eolas a chur ar an salachar go léir?

Le fírinne, ní gá.

Ach, ó shleamhnaigh sé isteach

bhí bréag ullamh aige:

chuir sé é féin i gcomparáid

leis an bpaiteolaíocht,

mhaígh go raibh sé úsáideach,

fóinteach agus, dá réir sin,

tugadh áit dó.

Is léir do chách anois

nach fóinteach atá an réalachas

ach dochrach,

an-dochrach . . .

Is deacair an bonn a bhaint de, áfach.

Dán is ea Réalachas a cuireadh le chéile as sliocht próis a fuarthas i leabhar de chuid Leo Shestov (1866 – 1938).

Cois Claí

 

Deir an duine sách

Atá ar a shuaimhneas,

Deir sé leis féin:

‘Conas a mhairfeá

Mura mbeifeá cinnte

Faoin lá amárach?

Conas a chodlófá

Gan díon os do chionn?’

Ar mhí-ámharaí an tsaoil

Caitear amach ar thaobh an bhóthair é.

Beidh air an oíche a chur de

Cois claí.

Níl scíth i ndán dó.

Scanraithe ina bheatha atá sé.

D’fhéadfadh ainmhithe allta a bheith thart

Nó bacaigh cosúil leis féin.

Téann sé i dtaithí air

I ndeireadh na dála, áfach.

Téann sé sa seans,

Codlaíonn sé ar nós bacaigh

Cois claí.

Dán is ea Cois Claí a cuireadh le chéile as sliocht próis a fuarthas i leabhar de chuid Leo Shestov (1866 – 1938).