(no subject)

[orneryhipster.livejournal.com]

i was privileged enough this evening to be able to attend a reading by contemporary Irish poet, Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill. she writes in Irish, one of few people who do. i went on a whim, having never read or heard anything by her, and i was truly moved, so i would like to share some of her work with you guys.


translated by michael longely

It's all the same to morning what it dawns on —
On the bickering of jackdaws in leafy trees;
On that dandy from the wetlands, the green mallard's
Stylish glissando among reeds; on the moorhen
Whose white petticoat flickers around the boghole;
On the oystercatcher on tiptoe at low tide.

It's all the same to the sun what it rises on —
On the windows in houses in Georgian squares;
On bees swarming to blitz suburban gardens;
On young couples yawning in unison before
They do it again; on dew like sweat or tears
On lilies and roses; on your bare shoulders.

But it isn't all the same to us that night-time
Runs out; that we must make do with today's
Happenings, and stoop and somehow glue together
The silly little shards of our lives, so that
Our children can drink water from broken bowls,
Not from cupped hands. It isn't the same at all.



translator?

Like the full moon
in grand array
you sail
into the room to me.
Master indeed
of all you survey,-
the shine on the furniture, the swellbeat
of my trembling, apprehensive heart.
Let's say you are "well on,"
your head is in a spin,
your gestures and your jests
grandiloquent
you don't even notice
that your white jersey
is crumpled
and inside out on you

You are so careful
of your waistline,
so dapper and so nifty
in your dressing,-
what else is left for me
to do but go out in the garden
and sit on the lawn
and howl my anguish at the moon.

Because, ochón, my sorrow,
but there is truth in the old saw
that there are three smiles
more bitter than death itself:
the grin of a treacherous hound,
the beam of melting snow,
and the smirk of your lover
who has just slept with another woman.



again - translator?

I'd make a bed for you
in Labysheedy
in the tall grass
under the wrestling trees
where your skin
would be silk upon silk
in the darkness
when the moths are coming down.
Skin which glistens
shining over your limbs
like milk being poured
from jugs at dinnertime;
your hair is a herd of goats
moving over rolling hills,
hills that have high cliffs
and two ravines.
And your damp lips
would be as sweet as sugar at evening and we walking
by the riverside
with honeyed breezes
blowing over the Shannon
and the fuschias bowing down to you
one by one. The fuschias bending low
their solemn heads in obeisance to the beauty
in front of them
I would pick a pair of flowers as pendant earrings
to adorn you
like a bride in shining clothes.
O I'd make a bed for you
in Labysheedy,
in the twilight hour
with evening falling slow
and what a pleasure it would be
to have our limbs entwine
wrestling
while the moths are coming down.



translated by Brian Crowe

Cast your dark line
over broken tides.
Blanket the blank spaces.
Stars spring
from your cracks
and the moon rides
in your pocket.

Cast it like shadows
flown from your back.
Hold
that
pose.
Take into you
canyon and wood.

Late nights when
we were together
busying ourselves
in barrooms,
I’d enjoy
our ignorance.

Now I wait for our lines
to potentially collide;
you will hear the gossip
that takes away my
breath.

For I’m not whole,
nor was I ever clean.
But it’s me still:
a woman on the line,
bleached and brittle
like old paper.

Cast your nets overseas
and land on your
shadow. My thoughts
will blow away
the canyon walls
and wind will wheeze
through.