Ar an lá seo 3 Meán Fómhair

	Ar an lá seo 3 Meán Fómhair, 1962, cailleadh e .e cummings, an file Meiriceánach a raibh tionchar aige ar Mhichael Davitt.
[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in] i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it(anywhere i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done by only me is your doing,my darling)           i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true) and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart) [ Complete Poems: 1904-1962 by E. E. Cummings, edited by George J. Firmage.] beirim do chroí liom(beirim istigh im chroí é)ní bhím riamh gan é (aon áit go dtéim téann tusa, a chuid; is gach a ndeintear lem lámh féin do ghníomh-sa is ea é, a stór) ní sheachnaím aon chinniúint (mar is tú mo chinniúint, mo ghrá) ní theastaíonn aon saol uaim (mar, a chraobh, is tú mo shaol fírinneach) ’s is tusa aon ní a chiallaigh gealach riamh ’s aon ní a chanfaidh grian go deo ’sea thú seo an rún is doimhne ná feadair éinne (seo fréamh na fréimhe is bachlóg na bachlóige is spéir an spéirchrainn “beatha”; a fhásann níos airde ná dóchas anama ná clúid aigne) ’s is é seo an rún a choimeádann na réilthíní scartha beirim do chroí liom(beirim istigh im chroí é).

dán Atwood poem

An uair sin

An uair sin tar éis na mblianta fada
de dhiansaothar is d’aistear éachtach
nuair a sheasann tú i lár an tseomra
nó sa tigh, an leathacra, an míle cearnach, an t-oileán, an tír,
agus fhios agat sa deireadh conas a tharla ann duit,
is deir tú, Is liomsa é seo,

Sin í an uair, leis,  a scaoilfidh na crainn
dá ngéaga boga timpeall ort,
tógfaidh an éanlaith a dteanga ar ais,
scoiltfidh na haillte is sceithfidh,
cúbfaidh an t-aer uait ina thonn tuile
is ní thiocfaidh t’anáil chugat.

Ní hea, ar siad. Ní leat aon ní.
Cuairteoir a bhí ionat, ag dreapadh an chnoic
arís is arís eile, an bhratach á cur. An forógra.
Níor leat riamh sinn.
Níor tháinig tú riamh orainn.
Droim ar ais ab ea é riamh.

~ Margaret Atwood ~

(morning in the burned house)
 

The Moment

 
The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,

is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can't breathe.

No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.

~ Margaret Atwood ~

(morning in the burned house)

Ar an lá seo 2 Meán Fómhair

	Ar an lá seo 2 Meán Fómhair, 1894, rugadh Joseph Roth
“B’in mar a bhí an uair úd. Rud ar bith a d’fhás, thóg sé tamall air fás, agus rud ar bith a cailleadh bhí tamall maith ann sular ligeadh i ndearmad é. Ach rud ar bith a bhí riamh ann, d’fhág sé a rian ina dhiaidh agus is ar chuimhní a mhair na daoine…”

Nóibhille le Pádraig Ó Cíobháin

Ar fáil anseo le caoinchead an údair

scáil na spíonán giúise
ag damhsa
thar na focail seo

John Scarlett

Éist leis anseo, a bhuí le hAbair.

Ar an lá seo 1 Meán Fómhair

	Ar an lá seo 1 Meán Fómhair, 1896, rugadh A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada.
Murach eisean seans maith nach mbeadh na siollaí ‘Hare Krishna’ cloiste agat.

Rosenstock faoi agallamh

Faoi agallamh ag Subodh Sarkar don iris Bheangálach a chuireann Sarkar in eagar Bhasanagar.

Interview with Gabriel Rosenstock

SS. I am awed by the fact that Ireland writes in `another` language that is her own. We were taught in schools and colleges that Ireland means English, and Ireland is English. Nobody in India is bothered about Ireland`s own language, own literature, own ethnicity. Did you feel the heat of it in India?

GR. Not many people in Ireland or in the West, generally, are aware of India's linguistic diversity, or the endangered linguistic diversity of the world. So we're quits!
Ireland had a literary Golden Age in Irish (Gaelic) long before English arrived on our shores. The language pre-dates English considerably.
I always believed that India derived some inspiration from Ireland’s struggle for independence. (Gandhi and Nehru attest to this). The 1916 Rising had poets and visionaries in its ranks, many of whom were committed to the revival of the Irish language, one of whom, Pearse, corresponded with your Tagore.

....

Léigh an t-iomlán anseo: