Basho

an blas uaigneach

atá ar an drúcht fionn

ná dearmad go deo é

gustul aparte

de rouă albă să nu-l uiți

niciodată

                                

Leagan Rómáinise: Olimpia Iacob

Hemant Divate

 Father’s instant imminent death…

1.

The father I knew as a child
Walking, scorpion-like, on his hands
Playfully walking on stilts with big children
And post-retirement, the stroke
Derailing his life

 

2.

No strength left in his limbs
Nor in his body
Unaware when half a morsel
Fell to the ground
Losing his balance, unknowingly
Collapsing while seated
His speech so often incomprehensible to us

 

3.

A sick man, weary of life
And, seeing him live like this
Wearing down slowly
Moment by moment
We too, were soon sick of it all

 

4.

 

Now, I wake with a start
Whenever the phone rings unexpectedly
Always fearing this to be the harbinger
Of my father’s death
Or news that he has fallen where he stood
Shuddering disturbingly
Rolling his eyes, collapsed in the hall
While Mai is busy in the kitchen
And cracked his skull
The blood flowing

 
How could my perplexed mother
Make the connection
Between Father, motionless by the sofa
And his brain—slithered under the table
Or maybe, having collapsed in the toilet
His brain floating, sploshed in the pot
And, as if by rote, Mai unattentively
Pulling the flush
 
What will happen to my brain

 

5.

And every moment I feel
My father should have a quick death
Without him even realizing it

 

6.

Then suddenly I come to know
Father, sitting in his easy chair
Watching cricket
So pleased with India’s victory
That he died in an instant
Just like I had imagined
Without anyone realizing it

 [English version: Mustansir Dalvi]

M’athair ar tí bás tobann a fháil . . .

1.
 

An t-athair a raibh aithne agam air is mé im’ pháisteÉ ag siúl, ar nós scairpe, ar a lámha
Ag siúl ar chosa croise go spraíúil le páistí móra
Agus an stróc a bhuail é tar éis éirí as
A chuir a shaol bun os cionn

2. 

Gan lúth fágtha ina ghéaga
Ná ina cholainn
Ní fhaca sé an blúire bia
A thit ar an urlár
Nuair a baineadh dá chothrom é, gan fhios dó féin
Ag titim ina phleist is é ina shuí
Ba mhinic nár thuigeamar ach corrfhocal uaidh

 

3.

Fear tinn, bréan den saol
Agus, nuair ba léir dúinn
An meath mall
Nóiméad i ndiaidh nóiméid
Bhíomarna, leis, bréan den rud ar fad

  

4.

Anois, dúisím de phreib
Má ghlaonn an guthán gan choinne
Agus eagla orm i gcónaí gurb é teachtaire
An bháis é
Nó gur thit sé as a sheasamh
É ar crith, scanrúil,
Na súile ag casadh, sínte sa halla
Agus Mai gnóthach sa chistin
A bhlaosc scoilte
Ag cur fola go tréan
Conas a dhéanfadh mo mháthair chráite
An ceangal idir m’Athair, ar an tolg gan chorraí
Agus a inchinn a sciorr faoin mbord
Nó b’fhéidir, más sa leithreas a thit sé
An inchinn ar snámh, mar phutóg sa bhabhla leithris
Agus Mai, gan smaoineamh,
Á sruthlú síos.
Cad a tharlóidh do m’inchinnse?


5.
Agus braithimse an t-am go léir
Gur chóir do m’athair bás tobann a fháil
Gan fhios dó féin

6.

Agus, i bhfaiteadh na súl cuirim aithne air
É ina shuí i gcathaoir bhog
Ag breathnú ar an gcruicéad
Agus é chomh sásta le bua na hIndia
Gur cailleadh láithreach é
Mar a shamhlaíos é
Gan fhios don saol

  

---

I had the honour of transcreating a selection of poems by Hemant Divate some years ago. Available on the Internet Archive:

https://archive.org/details/hemant-divate-poems-in-irish/page/n1/mode/2up

 

GAZA, a poem by Dino Siotis

 

Born in Tinos, Greece in 1944, Dino Siotis has published thirty five books of fiction and poetry in Greek, English, French and Spanish. His poems have been translated into many languages, including Arabic and Chinese. He is the founder of Wire Press and Society of (de)kata and the publisher and editor of sixteen political and/or literary magazines in San Francisco, Ontario, New York, Boston, and Athens. He regularly contributes articles on communication, the arts and book reviews in newspapers. He studied Law at Athens University and Creative Writing at San Francisco State University, following which he entered the diplomatic corps for the Hellenic Republic and served abroad a number of years in Canada and the U.S. as director of Press and Communication. In 2007 he received the Greek State Poetry Award for his poetry collection Autobiography of a Target. In 2011 he started Poets Circle in Athens. He is director of the Athens World Poetry Festival and the Tinos International Literary Festival and spends his time between Athens and Tinos, Greece.

 

 

 Γάζα

Μια φορά κι έναν καιρό ήταν η Γάζα, μια φορά κι έναν

καιρό ήταν μια πόλη με δρόμους, πλατείες με χουρμαδιές

και δημόσια κτίρια και σχολεία και σπίτια με πόρτες και

παράθυρα με μπετούγιες και τζάμια, μια φορά κι έναν
καιρό υπήρχε νερό και ρεύμα και δημόσια διοίκηση, μια
φορά κι έναν καιρό υπήρχαν δέντρα με πουλιά, καφενεία


με ανθρώπους που έπιναν τσάι και καφέ και συζητούσαν,
μια φορά κι έναν καιρό υπήρχε άνεμος που έφτανε απ’ το
ποτάμι ώς τη θάλασσα κι αν το κύμα ήταν κλειστό έφτανε

 

ώς τη Ράφα, μια φορά κι έναν καιρό οι κάτοικοι στη Γάζα
ζούσαν όμορφα και ειρηνικά και γελούσαν και χόρευαν
και κυκλοφορούσαν και ερωτεύονταν και παντρεύονταν

 
και ευημερούσαν και τα παιδιά πήγαιναν σχολείο κι οι
χαρές τους (που δεν είχαν τελειωμό) ανακυκλώνονταν
ώς το φεγγάρι, μια φορά κι έναν καιρό ολόκληρη η Γάζα
 

ένα απέραντο φως που αντανακλούσε την ομορφιά και
τη ζωντάνια της στιγμής, μια φορά κι έναν καιρό το
προσδόκιμο δεν μπορούσε κάποιος να το περιγράψει ή


να το προβλέψει, μια φορά κι έναν καιρό η Γάζα όλη μια
συνοικία, μια γειτονιά, μέχρι που ήρθε ο κατακλυσμός,
κι η Γάζα έγινε αεροπλάνο που χάθηκε στην πτήση του

 Τήνος, 25 Μαΐου 2024

 

Gaza

Once upon a time there was Gaza, once upon a time long
ago it was a city with streets, squares with palm trees and
public buildings and schools and houses with doors and
 
shuttered and glazed windows, once and for all long ago
there was water and electricity and public administration,
once upon a time there were trees with birds, coffeehouses
 
with people drinking tea and coffee and talking, once upon
a time there was a wind that came from river to the sea even
if the wave was closed it would reach to Rafah, once upon a
 
time the inhabitants of Gaza lived beautifully and peacefully
and laughed and danced and they moved around and fell in
love and married and they prospered and the children went
 
to school too their joys (which had no end) were recycled to
the moon, once upon a time all of Gaza was a vast light that
reflected beauty and the liveliness of the moment, once upon
 
a time the expected one could not describe it or to predict it,
once upon a time Gaza was all one district, a neighborhood,
then flood came, and Gaza became a plane lost in its flight
 
 Tinos, May 25, 2024 

 

Gaza

Bhí Gaza ann uair amháin, uair amháin fadó
ba chathair é agus sráideanna ann, cearnóga le crainn phailme agus
foirgnimh phoiblí agus scoileanna agus tithe ar a raibh doirse agus

fuinneoga is comhlaí is gloine ghlónraithe, uair amháin bhí uisce
ag cách agus leictreachas agus riarachán poiblí
uair amháin bhí crainn agus éanlaith ann, siopaí caife

agus daoine ag ól tae agus caife, ag cabaireacht, uair
amháin bhí leoithne a tháinig ón abhainn go dtí an mhuir agus fiú
má ba dhúnta í an tonn, shroisfeadh sí Rafah, uair

amháin mhair pobal Ghaza go hálainn agus go síochánta
is gháireadar is dhamhsaíodar is bhogadar thart is thiteadar
i ngrá agus phósadar agus bhí rath orthu agus chuaigh na páistí

ar scoil agus dá lúcháir (gan teorainn) rinneadh athchúrsáil
chun na gealaí, uair amháin solas fairsing ab ea Gaza
scáthán ar áilleacht agus ar spleodar an nóiméid, uair

amháin an té a raibh coinne leis ní fhéadfadh sé cur síos air ná é a thuar,
aon cheantar amháin ab ea Gaza uair amháin, comharsanacht,
tháinig tuilte ansin, agus deineadh eitleán de Ghaza a cailleadh i lár eitilte
 

 

Jesus and the Mudra

Salvator Mundi - Leonardo da Vinci

 Jesus and the Mudra

This is the mudra
I give to you
for the salvation of the world
and all other worlds:
bend the little finger
and the one beside it -
the ardhapataka mudra
as taught to me in India

Íosa agus an Mudra

Is é seo an mudra a thugaimse daoibh
ar mhaithe le slánú an domhain seo
agus na ndomhan eile go léir:
an lúidín a lúbadh
agus an mhéar in aice leis -
an mudra ardhapataka
a múineadh domsa san India

 

Jesus an the Mudra

here's the mudra

ah gie tae ye

fir the warl's salvation

an aw ither warls forby:

boo yer pinkie

an the yin neist tae it  -

the ardhapataka mudra

as learnt tae me in india

                  Béarla na hAlban: John McDonald

 

SAMHRADH / SUMMER

Joseph Henry Sharp - an campa samhraidh 

    

A bilingual ekphrastic tanka in Irish and English: (5-7-5-7-7 syllables)

spreading across skies

and moving among the trees

summer of our love

      reflected in the rivers

      and in our hearts, belovèd

thar na spéartha leis

is bogann i measc na gcrann

samhradh seo ár ngrá

        le feiscint sna haibhneacha

        is inár gcroí, a thaisce

 

Sándor Halmosi (POETS OF THE PLANET)

 

Sándor Halmosi (1971), Hungarian poet, literary translator, editor and mathematician, was born and attended grammar school in Szatmárnémeti (Satu Mare, Romania). He lived in Germany for 16 years and graduated from the University of Stuttgart. Since 2006 he has been living in Budapest, Hungary. Besides all his literary activities he gives presentations on tradition, poetry, language, and symbols. He attaches importance to promoting poetry and cultural dialogue, as well as the interconnection of literature and fine arts. In 2016 he started making cloisonné enamel artworks. Halmosi is the founder of many literary and cultural associations, organizer of workshops and salons, member of the Hungarian PEN Club (Budapest) and of the European Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters (EASAL, Paris), founding member of Poets of the Planet international poetry network established in 2023. He published a literary manifesto in February 2020, with the title Ora et labora. Crying-out for Pure Literature. This is an attempt to shine a light on the spiritual crisis of the world, through an authentic poetic stance and the responsibility of the literates – independent of their respective countries, linguistic and social characteristics. He published about 40 volumes in Hungarian and other languages.

HOGY NE ŐRÜLJ MEG

Hogy ne őrülj meg, meg kell őrülnöd minden
nap. Mint a nagy utasszállítók felszállás előtt,
még a kifutópályán, ahogy lefékeznek,
nyitogatják a szárnyakon az életfontosságú
lemezeket, tesztelik a kijelzőket, neked is
meg kell tanulnod karbantartanod a lelked,
naprakészen az érzékenységed, nem kitérni
semmi elől, hagynod, hogy a hitványság,
mint békés falvakon a vörösiszap, átfolyjon
rajtad. Amíg folyik, megtisztulhatsz.
Újra és újra.

UM NICHT WAHNSINNIG ZU WERDEN

Um nicht wahnsinnig zu werden, musst du jeden Tag
wahnsinnig werden. Wie die großen Passagierflugzeuge,
die auf der Landebahn vor dem Abflug abbremsen,
und die lebenswichtigen Platten auf ihren Tragflügeln
kontrollieren und die Displays testen, so musst du auch
lernen deine Seele zu warten, mit deiner Empfindlichkeit
auf dem Laufenden zu sein, vor nichts auszuweichen,
zulassen, dass Niedrigkeit dich, wie Rotschlamm die ruhigen
Dörfer, überläuft. Bis er fließt, kannst du dich bereinigen.
Wieder und wieder.

 © Aus dem Ungarischen übersetzt von Benedek Kovács, Natalia Schmidt und Sándor Halmosi

NOT TO GO MAD

In order not to go mad, you have to go
mad each day. Like the huge passenger
aircrafts before take-off, even on the runway
as they brake they move the crucial panels
up and down on the wings, test the displays,
you also have to learn to maintain your soul,
keep your sensitivity up to date, not to avoid
anything, let the vulgarity flow through you
as the red mud flows through peaceful villages.
While flowing, you can be cleansed.
Again and again.

© Translated in English by Márta Gyermán-Tóth

 

CHUN NACH RAGHFÁ AS DO MHEABHAIR

Chun nach raghfá as do mheabhair, ní mór duit
dul as do mheabhair gach lá. Ar nós na móreitleán
paisinéirí roimh dóibh éirí san aer, fiú ar an rúidbhealach
nuair a bhrúitear na coscáin bogann na painéil bharrthábhachtacha
suas síos ar na sciatháin, déantar an taispeánadh a thástáil,
beidh ortsa foghlaim chomh maith conas d'anam a chaomhnú,
do leochaileacht a choinneáil suas chun dáta, gan aon ní
a sheachaint, ligean don gháirsiúlacht a bheith ina sruth tríot
faoi mar a imíonn an láib dhearg ina sruth trí shráidbhailte séimhe.
Is féidir tú a ghlanadh sa sruth.
Arís is arís eile

Caitlin Johnstone

 There Was A Time

Caitlin Johnstone

It’s hard to believe there was a time when I didn’t know what a child’s insides look like.
That I didn’t know how limp babies’ limbs go when they are dead,
when they are missing parts of their body,
missing their head,
limbs dangling lifeless as parents hold them in front of the camera,
screaming, crying, pleading, desperate.
There was a time when I didn’t know how it feels to watch a man scream “Free Palestine” while burning alive,
until there was nothing left to scream with and he lost his voice forever,
but still by some power remained standing long after his voice was gone.
I didn’t used to know just how sadistic people can be,
how hateful they can be,
how apathetic they can be toward the suffering of human beings,
or how heroic others can be in times of great need.
I didn’t used to know. Now I do.
And now I sit here, head heavy like lead, tongue limp like a baby’s corpse,
hands feeling older than the stars,
and I don’t know what to do.
There is nothing I can say to make this okay.
There is nothing I can say to make any of this make sense.
This is the civilization we were born into.
This is what our ruling class has decided will be normal,
as the airman said before he burned.
I lift my ancient hands to my sore heart
and say a prayer to the great Whatever
in a desperate plea
for a better world.

Bhí Tráth Ann

Bhí tráth ann, is deacair é a chreidiúint, agus ní raibh a fhios agam cén chuma a bhí ar ionathar linbh.
Cé chomh sleabhctha is a bhíonn a ngéaga nuair a chailltear iad,
nó codanna dá gcolainn a bheith in easnamh,
ceann ar iarraidh,
a ngéaga ar liobarna agus tuismitheoirí á n-ardú os comhair ceamara,
ag scréachaíl, ag caoineadh, ag impí, i ndeireadh na feide.
Bhí tráth ann nuair nár thuigeas conas a mhothaíonn sé breathnú ar fhear ag béicíl
"Saortar an Phailistín" agus é á dhó ina bheatha,
nuair nach raibh gléas béicíola fágtha aige agus a ghuth caillte go deo,
ach trí chumhacht éigin a sheas an fód tar éis dá ghuth a bheith imithe le fada.
Níor thuigeas i gceart go raibh daoine áirithe gan chroí,
lán d'fhuath,
cuma sa riach leo faoi fhulaingt daoine eile,
agus daoine eile ina laochra in am an ghátair.
Ní raibh a fhios agam. Tá a fhios agam anois.
Agus anois táim im' shuí anseo, mo cheann chomh trom le cloch, mo theanga
sleabhctha ar nós corpáin linbh,
mo dhá lámh níos sine ná na réaltaí,
agus n'fheadar cad a dhéanfad.
Níl aon ní is féidir a rá a chuirfidh ar ceal é.
Níl aon ní is féidir a rá chun ciall a bhaint as seo.
Saolaíodh sa tsibhialtacht seo sinn.
Shocraigh an aicme cheannais go mbeadh sé seo normálta,
mar a dúirt an t-eitleoir sular dódh é.
Ardaímse mo sheanlámha go dtí mo chroí
agus seo ag guí mé chun Pé Rud É
ag impí air go géar
domhan níos fearr a chruthú.