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an t-anam á aithint féin i ngach ní ... corr bhán |
the soul knowing itself in all things... white heron | ||
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σε όλα μέσα διακρίνεται η ψυχή... λευκός ερωδιός Leagan Gréigise: Sarah Thilykou |
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2017-06-30
Frank Benson
2017-06-29
Feitheamh
Agus tú fá shuan,
ar thairseach do chuid brionglóidí,
mé ag feitheamh is ag stánadh go ciúin ar do ghnúis
nuair a nochtann réalt na maidine ar dtús ag d'fhuinneog.
Mar a chéile, cois cladaigh,
an t-aiséiteach tumtha sa mhachnamh,
is é ag stánadh Soir -
a bhigil fhada caite aige in eacstais gan néal,
is é ag súil le breacadh an lae
á fholcadh.
Ólfadsa lem' dhá shúil
an chéad mheangadh
a bhláthóidh ar do liopaí leathoscailte
mar bhachlóg -
a mhian.
In your sleep,
At the threshold of your dreams,
I wait and gaze silently on your face
As the morning star first appears at your window.
In the same way, by the seashore,
The ascetic plunged in meditation
Gazes towards the East -
His hours of vigil pass away in sleepless ecstasy,
As he looks forward to his immersion
In the first light of morning.
With mine eyes,
I shall drink the first smile
That blooms on your half-opened lips
Like a flower-bud -
This is my wish.
ar thairseach do chuid brionglóidí,
mé ag feitheamh is ag stánadh go ciúin ar do ghnúis
nuair a nochtann réalt na maidine ar dtús ag d'fhuinneog.
Mar a chéile, cois cladaigh,
an t-aiséiteach tumtha sa mhachnamh,
is é ag stánadh Soir -
a bhigil fhada caite aige in eacstais gan néal,
is é ag súil le breacadh an lae
á fholcadh.
Ólfadsa lem' dhá shúil
an chéad mheangadh
a bhláthóidh ar do liopaí leathoscailte
mar bhachlóg -
a mhian.
Rabindranath Tagore
Awaiting
In your sleep,
At the threshold of your dreams,
I wait and gaze silently on your face
As the morning star first appears at your window.
In the same way, by the seashore,
The ascetic plunged in meditation
Gazes towards the East -
His hours of vigil pass away in sleepless ecstasy,
As he looks forward to his immersion
In the first light of morning.
With mine eyes,
I shall drink the first smile
That blooms on your half-opened lips
Like a flower-bud -
This is my wish.
Later Poems of Tagore (Orient Paperbacks, New Delhi)
2017-06-28
Diane Arbus
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an bhrionglóid cén bhrí a bhí léi… cén cuspóir |
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the dream what did it mean… what was it for |
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το ενύπνιο τι να σήμαινε… για ποιο πράγμα να ήταν Sarah Thilykou a dhein an leagan Gréigise |
2017-06-27
Ar Mhullach Bhinn Éadair
Gháir tú nuair a bhánaigh na tonnta glasa
Ar charraigeacha i bhfad uait, á rá, “Scaoilfead
Saor mo chuid ribíní chun go gcloisfinn
Toirneach bhog na gaoithe im’ chuid gruaige.”
“Níl sa ghaoth ach bláthfhleasc an tsáile.
An fhuil ag cuisliú ionam – cuthach
Na n-aoiseanna – a chloiseann tú is ní an ghaoth
Mar thoirneach bhog i do chuid gruaige."
Baile Átha Cliath, 1966
Hubert Ribeiro Santana (de bhunadh Goa)
On Howth Head
Laughing to see the green waves pale
On far rocks, you said, “I will pull
Loose my ribbons, that I may hear
The wind’s soft thunder in my hair.”
“The wind is but the water’s wreath.
It is my beating blood – the wrath
Of ages – and not the wind you hear
Makes that soft thunder in your hair.”
Dublin, 1966
Hubert Ribeiro Santana
2017-06-26
THE EMIGRANT/ AN DEORAÍ
Nach minic, is mé cortha ag an ór nach raibh im’ lámh,
Gur éalaigh osna uaim, a Mháithrín ó
Ag taibhreamh dom faoi luí na gréine ar an trá
Nó sna goirt ríse is an ghaoth ag séideadh fadó!
Nach minic is an dóchas ionam ag éag
Gur chuas i bhfolach id’ bhrollachsa glas-aoibhinn án –
Ba thú an tearmann caol thug scíth dom ghéag’
Is mé ag teitheadh ón domhan ’bhí sioctha ina lár!
Tá séipéilín ina sheasamh ar chnocán liath:
Is ann a baisteadh mise im’ bhunóc
Is ann a luíonn mo mháthair, leis, le Dia
Is ghuífinn ann is d’éireoinn as an tóir.
A thír na sean! Lig don aos óg
Bheith bródúil as an bhfód seo i mo dhiaidh.
Gur éalaigh osna uaim, a Mháithrín ó
Ag taibhreamh dom faoi luí na gréine ar an trá
Nó sna goirt ríse is an ghaoth ag séideadh fadó!
Nach minic is an dóchas ionam ag éag
Gur chuas i bhfolach id’ bhrollachsa glas-aoibhinn án –
Ba thú an tearmann caol thug scíth dom ghéag’
Is mé ag teitheadh ón domhan ’bhí sioctha ina lár!
Tá séipéilín ina sheasamh ar chnocán liath:
Is ann a baisteadh mise im’ bhunóc
Is ann a luíonn mo mháthair, leis, le Dia
Is ghuífinn ann is d’éireoinn as an tóir.
A thír na sean! Lig don aos óg
Bheith bródúil as an bhfód seo i mo dhiaidh.
Armando Menezes (Goa)
The Emigrant
(1933)
How often, wearied with ungotten gold,
Have I, O Mother, dreamed and, dreaming, sighed
For the pure gold of thy sunsets and the tide
Of golden ricefields when the wind is bold!
How often, when sick hope has lost its hold,
Have I in thy green bosom yearned to hide—
Thou narrow haven from a world so wide,
Thou cosy shelter from a world so cold!
Upon a low gray hill there stands a church:
They say it was there that they christened me.
There, too, my mother sleeps; there I alone
Would pray — pray and forget this fruitless search.
Land of my fathers! May’st thou also be
The land my children shall be proud to own.
Have I, O Mother, dreamed and, dreaming, sighed
For the pure gold of thy sunsets and the tide
Of golden ricefields when the wind is bold!
How often, when sick hope has lost its hold,
Have I in thy green bosom yearned to hide—
Thou narrow haven from a world so wide,
Thou cosy shelter from a world so cold!
Upon a low gray hill there stands a church:
They say it was there that they christened me.
There, too, my mother sleeps; there I alone
Would pray — pray and forget this fruitless search.
Land of my fathers! May’st thou also be
The land my children shall be proud to own.
Armando Menezes (Goa)
2017-06-25
Teacht le Chéile
Bhí nós aisteach ag m’uncail daoine a thabhairt le chéile.
Thógfadh sé cúigear is fiche mura miste leat ar turas.
Abair: Aintín Perpetual a raibh a hucht gearrtha,
d’ardaíodh sí a t-léine i gcónaí chun an scéal a insint dúinn,
Avo a sheasadh agus a dhéanadh a mhún ar nós sioráif,
Milton, col ceathar, ag cur síos ar threabhsar daoine is brístíní,
Uncail Kaitaan a scar óna bhean sular chaill sé a radharc
agus cathrú air ar bhreathnú siar dó,
nó Aintín Bertha a raibh an oiread sin grá aici dá fear
go mba bhreá leo cithfholcthaí picnice dá gcolainn liobarnach tar éis 40 bliain
(an lánúin a fholcann le chéile...),
Aintín Nysa a staon ó bhia le bheith seang is a d’éirigh feosaí
mar nach ionann a bheith aon kg níos éadroime agus a bheith níos óige,
agus Aintín Alice a bhí colscartha nuair a bhain teir lena leithéid.
Uncail Wilfred a raibh nath cainte aige do gach ócáid
sa Choncáinis liriciúil
rud a d’imeallódh a chuid naimhde
faoi mar a imeallaíodh eisean toisc é a bheith beo bocht.
M’athairse ag cúlú leis i gcónaí ó rothaíocht
na bpáistí,
agus ó chiorcal na beatha is rothaí móra an tsaoil.
Bheadh cúpla uncail spártha suite i gcónaí ar chathaoireacha plaisteacha
leis na tiománaithe is na garraíodóirí
agus buidéil alcóil á n-oscailt go sollúnta acu.
Bheadh piollaí torthúlachta ag Aintín Cassandra
clocha míle páistí eile aici á gcomhaireamh
gaois loiteoige na dea-thuismitheoireachta á cleachtadh aici.
Aintín Matilda ar fithis le curaí, sorpotel,
is gríscíní a friochadh i seimilín is ola shaor lus na gréine.
Fuair daoine an-bhlas ar a cuid ofrálacha dea-mhéine
ach níor thugadar riamh cuireadh chun cóisire di.
Agus maidir leis na searbhóntaí!
Cothrom na féinne le plátaí dinnéir
a gcloigeann lan de mhíolta,
bríste gairid orthu, cíochbheart lasmuigh den t-léine.
Toitíní garbha á gcaitheamh acu, ag crochadh thart
ar chol ceathracha na gceathrún griandaite cruicéid,
ag scigireacht ar chol ceathrair Milton gur ainteagmhaíodh leo
is cuireadh abhaile iad.
M’aintín – bean m’uncail – bheadh spéis aici
i ngach anraith agus an t-oideas,
ba chuma cén tigh nó óstán ina rabhamar.
Ní éalódh aon ní uaithi
fiu agus nóibhéine laethúil ar siúl, clog an aingil nó an paidrín:
an ceangal idir Martha agus Rosie, aon chineál amháin iad,
an obair fhíolagráin ar bhráisléid óir Avo,
an tuarastal a thuill Uncail Jimmy,
na marcanna a thug Edith abhaile.
Ghiorraíodh m’uncail an bóthar
le jócanna luchanna eaglaise ar thraenacha go Goa
agus sos againn ag Miraj.
Chliceáladh sé pictiúir d’Eas Dudhsagar
leis an panache céanna sin
a mbuaileadh Uncail Fred agus Tony an cac as a a gcéile mná
agus d’fhuaigh Aintí Emma an taobh amuigh
de phóca a céile siúd
ionas nach dtabharfadh sé iasacht d’éinne níos mó.
Aon uair a mbíodh Edith ar bharr an ranga
bhí sé ina raic eadrainn – na páistí eile.
Nuair a fuair sí jab agus tuarastal ard,
bhí m’aintín ag lorg náideanna i ngach éinne
ar nós comhábhar in anraith.
Marcanna arda ná airgead ní raibh againne.
Íochtaráin ab ea sinn, pátrúin na bochtaineachta.
Níor linne riamh an lá
lascadh ár n-aintín sinn lena stánadh gormshúileach
i seomra lán de chomhluadar.
Not less than 25 he would take on an outing.
Like: Aunty Perpetual with her breast cut
who would lift her t-shirt every time to show us her story,
Avo who would stand and take a piss like a giraffe,
Cousin Milton who would talk about everyone’s pants and panties,
Uncle Kaitaan who divorced his wife just before he turned blind
and regretted it in hindsight,
or Aunt Bertha who loved her husband so much
they still bathed under picnic showers and sagging flesh of 40 years
(a couple that bathes together…),
Aunt Nysa who starved to look thin and ended up haggard
because one kg less is not a year younger,
and Aunt Alice who was divorced when that was still a stigma.
Uncle Wilfred had one phrase for every occasion
in lyrical Konkani
aimed to marginalize his opponents
who had marginalized him because of his poverty.
My father would step further and further away
from the kids cycling,
as he would from the circle of life and everyone’s life cycles.
A few spare uncles would always sit on plastic chairs
with the chauffeurs and gardeners
inaugurating alcohol bottles.
Aunt Cassandra would be on a fertility pill
counting milestones of other’s children and
practising her lotus-like parenting wisdom.
Matilda aunt orbited around with curries, sorpotel,
and cutlets fried in rava and cheap sunflower oil.
People relished her friendship-offerings
but never invited her for their parties.
And the servants!
Equal of equals on the dinner plates
with their heads full of lice,
they wore shorts, and their bras outside their t-shirts.
They smoked beedis, hovered around the male cousins
with bronzed cricket thighs,
and giggled at cousin Milton until they were molested,
and shunted home.
My aunty – Uncle’s wife - would be interested
in every soup and its recipe,
never mind which house or hotel we were in.
Nothing escaped her sight
even in daily novenas, angelus, or rosaries:
the peas-in-the pulav bond between Martha and Rosie,
the filigreed work on Avo’s gold bangles,
the salary Jimmy uncle earned,
the marks Edith brought home.
My uncle would cut long journeys short
with church mouse jokes on trains to Goa
with break journeys at Miraj.
He would click pictures of Dudh-sagar
with as much panache
as Uncles Fred and Tony beat up their wives
and Aunty Emma stitched her husband’s pocket
from the opening outside
so he wouldn’t lend any more money.
Every time Edith topped her class
there would be mayhem for all of us - the other children.
When she got a job with a heavy pay packet,
my aunt searched for zeros in every person,
like ingredients in a soup.
We had neither high marks nor the money.
We were the pariahs, patrons of penury.
The day never belonged to us
as our aunt whipped us with her blue-eyed gaze
in this room full of people.
Thógfadh sé cúigear is fiche mura miste leat ar turas.
Abair: Aintín Perpetual a raibh a hucht gearrtha,
d’ardaíodh sí a t-léine i gcónaí chun an scéal a insint dúinn,
Avo a sheasadh agus a dhéanadh a mhún ar nós sioráif,
Milton, col ceathar, ag cur síos ar threabhsar daoine is brístíní,
Uncail Kaitaan a scar óna bhean sular chaill sé a radharc
agus cathrú air ar bhreathnú siar dó,
nó Aintín Bertha a raibh an oiread sin grá aici dá fear
go mba bhreá leo cithfholcthaí picnice dá gcolainn liobarnach tar éis 40 bliain
(an lánúin a fholcann le chéile...),
Aintín Nysa a staon ó bhia le bheith seang is a d’éirigh feosaí
mar nach ionann a bheith aon kg níos éadroime agus a bheith níos óige,
agus Aintín Alice a bhí colscartha nuair a bhain teir lena leithéid.
Uncail Wilfred a raibh nath cainte aige do gach ócáid
sa Choncáinis liriciúil
rud a d’imeallódh a chuid naimhde
faoi mar a imeallaíodh eisean toisc é a bheith beo bocht.
M’athairse ag cúlú leis i gcónaí ó rothaíocht
na bpáistí,
agus ó chiorcal na beatha is rothaí móra an tsaoil.
Bheadh cúpla uncail spártha suite i gcónaí ar chathaoireacha plaisteacha
leis na tiománaithe is na garraíodóirí
agus buidéil alcóil á n-oscailt go sollúnta acu.
Bheadh piollaí torthúlachta ag Aintín Cassandra
clocha míle páistí eile aici á gcomhaireamh
gaois loiteoige na dea-thuismitheoireachta á cleachtadh aici.
Aintín Matilda ar fithis le curaí, sorpotel,
is gríscíní a friochadh i seimilín is ola shaor lus na gréine.
Fuair daoine an-bhlas ar a cuid ofrálacha dea-mhéine
ach níor thugadar riamh cuireadh chun cóisire di.
Agus maidir leis na searbhóntaí!
Cothrom na féinne le plátaí dinnéir
a gcloigeann lan de mhíolta,
bríste gairid orthu, cíochbheart lasmuigh den t-léine.
Toitíní garbha á gcaitheamh acu, ag crochadh thart
ar chol ceathracha na gceathrún griandaite cruicéid,
ag scigireacht ar chol ceathrair Milton gur ainteagmhaíodh leo
is cuireadh abhaile iad.
M’aintín – bean m’uncail – bheadh spéis aici
i ngach anraith agus an t-oideas,
ba chuma cén tigh nó óstán ina rabhamar.
Ní éalódh aon ní uaithi
fiu agus nóibhéine laethúil ar siúl, clog an aingil nó an paidrín:
an ceangal idir Martha agus Rosie, aon chineál amháin iad,
an obair fhíolagráin ar bhráisléid óir Avo,
an tuarastal a thuill Uncail Jimmy,
na marcanna a thug Edith abhaile.
Ghiorraíodh m’uncail an bóthar
le jócanna luchanna eaglaise ar thraenacha go Goa
agus sos againn ag Miraj.
Chliceáladh sé pictiúir d’Eas Dudhsagar
leis an panache céanna sin
a mbuaileadh Uncail Fred agus Tony an cac as a a gcéile mná
agus d’fhuaigh Aintí Emma an taobh amuigh
de phóca a céile siúd
ionas nach dtabharfadh sé iasacht d’éinne níos mó.
Aon uair a mbíodh Edith ar bharr an ranga
bhí sé ina raic eadrainn – na páistí eile.
Nuair a fuair sí jab agus tuarastal ard,
bhí m’aintín ag lorg náideanna i ngach éinne
ar nós comhábhar in anraith.
Marcanna arda ná airgead ní raibh againne.
Íochtaráin ab ea sinn, pátrúin na bochtaineachta.
Níor linne riamh an lá
lascadh ár n-aintín sinn lena stánadh gormshúileach
i seomra lán de chomhluadar.
Rochelle Potkar (Goa)
Gathering
My uncle had a strange habit of gathering people.Not less than 25 he would take on an outing.
Like: Aunty Perpetual with her breast cut
who would lift her t-shirt every time to show us her story,
Avo who would stand and take a piss like a giraffe,
Cousin Milton who would talk about everyone’s pants and panties,
Uncle Kaitaan who divorced his wife just before he turned blind
and regretted it in hindsight,
or Aunt Bertha who loved her husband so much
they still bathed under picnic showers and sagging flesh of 40 years
(a couple that bathes together…),
Aunt Nysa who starved to look thin and ended up haggard
because one kg less is not a year younger,
and Aunt Alice who was divorced when that was still a stigma.
Uncle Wilfred had one phrase for every occasion
in lyrical Konkani
aimed to marginalize his opponents
who had marginalized him because of his poverty.
My father would step further and further away
from the kids cycling,
as he would from the circle of life and everyone’s life cycles.
A few spare uncles would always sit on plastic chairs
with the chauffeurs and gardeners
inaugurating alcohol bottles.
Aunt Cassandra would be on a fertility pill
counting milestones of other’s children and
practising her lotus-like parenting wisdom.
Matilda aunt orbited around with curries, sorpotel,
and cutlets fried in rava and cheap sunflower oil.
People relished her friendship-offerings
but never invited her for their parties.
And the servants!
Equal of equals on the dinner plates
with their heads full of lice,
they wore shorts, and their bras outside their t-shirts.
They smoked beedis, hovered around the male cousins
with bronzed cricket thighs,
and giggled at cousin Milton until they were molested,
and shunted home.
My aunty – Uncle’s wife - would be interested
in every soup and its recipe,
never mind which house or hotel we were in.
Nothing escaped her sight
even in daily novenas, angelus, or rosaries:
the peas-in-the pulav bond between Martha and Rosie,
the filigreed work on Avo’s gold bangles,
the salary Jimmy uncle earned,
the marks Edith brought home.
My uncle would cut long journeys short
with church mouse jokes on trains to Goa
with break journeys at Miraj.
He would click pictures of Dudh-sagar
with as much panache
as Uncles Fred and Tony beat up their wives
and Aunty Emma stitched her husband’s pocket
from the opening outside
so he wouldn’t lend any more money.
Every time Edith topped her class
there would be mayhem for all of us - the other children.
When she got a job with a heavy pay packet,
my aunt searched for zeros in every person,
like ingredients in a soup.
We had neither high marks nor the money.
We were the pariahs, patrons of penury.
The day never belonged to us
as our aunt whipped us with her blue-eyed gaze
in this room full of people.
Rochelle Potkar (Goa)
2017-06-24
Haiku
a bhfuil fágtha
den oíche
dhá phréachán ar ghéag
all that's left
of the night
two crows on a branch
केवल यही बचा है
इस रात का
दो कौए एक टहनी पर
caoirigh sléibhe
faoin gceo
ag cogaint na cruinne
mountain sheep
in mist
chewing the universe
पहाड़ी भेड़ें
धुंध में
विश्व को चबा रहीं
den oíche
dhá phréachán ar ghéag
all that's left
of the night
two crows on a branch
केवल यही बचा है
इस रात का
दो कौए एक टहनी पर
i m'aonar anocht
leis na torbáin
leis an gcruinne
alone tonight
with tadpoles
with the universe
अकेला हूँ आज रात
बैंगचीयों के साथ
ब्रह्मांड के साथ
caoirigh sléibhe
faoin gceo
ag cogaint na cruinne
mountain sheep
in mist
chewing the universe
पहाड़ी भेड़ें
धुंध में
विश्व को चबा रहीं
grian íseal
scáileanna ar a dteitheadh
thar pháirceanna catha
low sun
shadows fleeing
across battlefields
सूर्य नीचे हुआ
परछाइयाँ भागीं
रणक्षेत्रों के पार
Hiondúis/ Hindi: Angelee Deodhar
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