rave
coschleiteach ar chosán
damhsaímid abhaile
le breacadh an lae,
dúidín deiridh na hoíche
á roinnt eadrainn,
dall ar shuansiúlaithe na traenach
beocht an doird fós ar preabadh
i gceol ár gcuislí
is dúghealacha lána
ag lonrú sa cheithre shúil ar leathadh.
* * *
Sólás
(Nóta: Den Bhéaloideas é go bhfllfeadh anam an linbh mhairbh i riocht an cheolaire chíbe is go dtabharfadh a ceol faoiseamh croí don mháthair)
Faoi cheo gealaí meán oíche,
de cheol caillte,
flleann sí ó chríocha ciana:
Aithním do bhall broinne,
a cheolaire chíbe
agus is fada liom go bhfllfdh tú arís
chugam.
* * *
Póigín Gréine
Scaipeann bricíní gréine ar dhroichead do shróine
mar a bheadh ballóga ann ar chraiceann na mbreac
a shnámhann anois trí scáthanna dorcha
is trí sholas ómra, ag dul le sruth.
* * *
Solitude
Deirtear
gur dhíol sé móinéar thoir
fheirm a mhuintire leis na tógálaithe
mar mhalairt ar philiúr airgid
agus bos beo le seile cuaiche. Sin uile.
Deirtear
gur cheannaigh sé bád
ar bhaist sé Solitude uirthi
gur chuir sé ar snámh ar Loch an Bhúrcaigh í,
an t-aon uair amháin.
Deirtear
go bhfuil sí sa bhaile aige, ina suí go seascair
i gcúinne bhothán na mbó, faoi shíoda
na ndamhán alla. Is fíor sin. Tá deannach faoi bhláth
ar an gcabhail, áit a bhfuil lorg lámh mná le feiceáil.
* * *
Faobhar an Fhómhair
Lá Lúnasa ag faobhar an Fhómhair
ritheann abhainn tríd an bhforaois,
áit a ndreapann fear síos lena gharmhac
le clocha a chaitheamh.
Preabann a bpúróga, sleamhnaíonn siad
trí chraiceann na habhann.
Casann siad ciorcail chomhlárnacha,
cuasanna a chnagann ar a chéile.
Lastuas, tá fáibhile ag faire ar an gcruth.
De dhearmad, ligeann sí lena greim
ar dhornán duilleog — glas, órga —
go scaoiltear iad le sruth.
* * *
Faoi Shamhain,
Nuair atá gach uile ní
ag titim, ag teip,
an domhan ag tiontú
ina mhóta dorcha,
ag maothú faoi chosa,
cuimhnigh
go gcanfaidh
duilleog dheiridh
an chrainn
sa ghairdín
scol an loin
má chuireann tú
cluas le héisteacht ort.
Folaítear ceol
faoi sciatháin gheimhridh
áit nach bhfeicfí é.
Éist.
Published January 15, 2022
Excerpted from Doireann Ní Ghríofa, Lies, Dedalus Press, Dublin 2018.
The original texts in Irish and English are published here by kind permission of the Author and the Publisher.
© 2018 Doireann Ní Ghríofa
© 2018 Dedalus Press
Five Poems from Lies
Written in Gaelic by Doireann Ní Ghríofa
Translated into English by Doireann Ní Ghríofa
rave
with highheels in our fists,
we turn feather-footed,
swaying over dawn pavements,
last night’s last joint pinched
between us, oblivious
to sleepwalkers on the train,
with bass still thudding in our veins,
and black moons swelling in each gaze.
* * *
Solace
(Note: In Irish folklore, souls of dead infants were believed to return as sedge-warblers to comfort their mothers with song)
Listen: in midnight
moon-mist, in snatches of lost music,
I’ve heard her return from the distance.
Little visitor, your birthmark looks so familiar.
Small warbler, listen, every night, I’ll wait,
awake, facing north, until the last star-light fades.
Find me, child; I yearn for your return.
* * *
Freckle
The freckles on the bridge of your nose
sing loud, now, of the speckled skin of a trout,
one who swims out through shallow glooms
and amber-dappled beams, a dapper changeling
swerving upstream.
* * *
Solitude
They say
that he sold the haggart of the family farm
for a pillowslip of builders’ cash and
a palmful of cuckoo spit. Shrug. That’s it.
They say
that he bought a boat, called it Solitude,
sailed it once, beyond on Lough Bourke,
but never again did it touch that murk.
They say
that it sits in the calves’ cabin, tucked under
a shroud of cobweb blossom. It’s true. Dust blooms
on the hull too, where a woman once wrote a clue.
* * *
Cusp of Autumn
Late August, cusp of autumn,
and a river splits a forest
where a man and his grandson scramble
down a slope to throw stones.
Watch: their pebbles soar, hopscotch,
then slip into the water’s skin,
sketching concentric circles that glint,
thin edges colliding on the current.
The beech tree watching from above
forgets herself and drops a handful
of leaves — golden, green — sending them
scattering into the stream.
* * *
In November,
when everything
is falling, failing,
the whole world
dulled, turned
to black mulch
underfoot
remember
that the very last
leaf
up on the tree
will whistle
a tune
if you listen
closely.
Secret melodies have been
concealed under winter wings,
in case of emergency.
Listen.
Published January 15, 2022
Excerpted from Doireann Ní Ghríofa, Lies, Dedalus Press, Dublin 2018.
The original texts in Irish and English are published here by kind permission of the Author and the Publisher.
© 2018 Doireann Ní Ghríofa
© 2018 Dedalus Press
Cinque poesie from Bugie
Written in Gaelic by Doireann Ní Ghríofa
Translated into Italian by Antiniska Pozzi and Marco Sonzogni
rave
con i tacchi a spillo tra i pugni
i piedi diventano piume,
ondeggiando su marciapiedi dell’alba,
l’ultima canna della notte scorsa schiacciata
tra noi, incuranti
dei sonnambuli sul treno,
con i bassi che ancora ci pompano nelle vene,
e lune nere che crescono a ogni sguardo.
* * *
Consolazione
(Nota: nel folklore irlandese, si credeva che le anime dei bambini morti tornassero come forapaglie per confortare le loro madri con il canto)
Ascolta: nella nebbia-luna
di mezzanotte, in frammenti di musica perduta,
l’ho sentita tornare da lontano.
Piccola visitatrice, la tua voglia sembra così familiare.
Piccola cinciallegra, ascolta, ogni notte, aspetterò,
sveglio, rivolto a nord, finché l’ultima luce stellare svanisce.
Trovami, bambina; bramo il tuo ritorno.
* * *
Efélide
Le efélidi sul ponte del tuo naso
parlano forte e chiaro, ora, della pelle maculata di una trota,
quella che nuota tra chiazze d’ombra
e raggi di luce ambrata, un elegante changeling
che scartando risale la corrente.
* * *
Solitudine
Dicono
che lui abbia venduto l’appezzamento della fattoria
di famiglia per una manciata di soldi da muratore e
un pugno di mosche. Amen. Questo è quanto.
Dicono
che lui comprò una barca, la chiamò Solitudine,
ci navigò una volta, oltre il Lough Bourke,
ma non toccò mai più quel buio.
Dicono
che la barca si trovi nella capanna dei vitelli, nascosta sotto
un sudario di fiori di ragno. È vero. La polvere fiorisce
anche sullo scafo, dove una volta una donna ha inciso una traccia.
* * *
Quasi autunno
Fine agosto, quasi autunno,
e un fiume taglia una foresta
dove un uomo e suo nipote balzano
giù da un pendio per tirare pietre.
Guarda: i loro sassolini s’alzano, volano,
poi scivolano sulla pelle dell’acqua
schizzando cerchi concentrici che luccicano,
sottili orli che si scontrano sulla corrente.
La betulla che osserva dall’alto
dimentica se stessa e lascia cadere un pugno
di foglie — dorate, verdi — facendole
disperdere nel flusso.
* * *
A novembre,
quando tutto
finisce, fallisce,
il mondo intero
smorzato, sformato
in pacciame nero
sotto i piedi
ricorda
che l’ultimissima
foglia
sull’albero
fischierà
un motivo
se ascolti
attentamente.
Melodie segrete sono state
nascoste sotto le ali dell’inverno,
in caso di emergenza
Ascolta.
Published January 15, 2022
© 2018 Doireann Ní Ghríofa
© 2018 Dedalus Press
© 2021 Antiniska Pozzi and Marco Sonzogni
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