Emigrante
An chéad fhómhar di
sa Domhan Úr
bhí fonn uirthi an uile ní
a ainmniú
nó an rud a bhrath
lena méar: caonach,
coirt fhliuch na gcrann,
mogall cnó capaill
a raibh an taobh istigh de
chomh bogmhín
agus maoth
léi féin . . .
nó gur sháigh a máthair
a ceann amach
fuinneog in airde
is do bhéic:
¡Oye chica, que frío, eh?!
¿Dondé està tu chaqueta?
Ní raibh uaithi anois
ach go slogfaí
sa phuiteach í
go barra a cinn.
San ithir sin
a phéacfear í,
as an gcré sin
a fháiscfí í.
Ní bhrisfidh an dúchas
trína súile go brách.
Filleadh ón Antartach
Cloiseann sé fós é:
díoscán an oighir,
tormáil i bhfad uaidh,
ciúnas an tsneachta.
Is cuimhin leis go fóill
an t-aer úr a shlogadh,
an dá scamhóg aige nite,
fuacht naofa ag beannú a chnis.
Thug sé grá a chroí
don ngoimh gheal,
don díseart tostach
don tírdhreach glan.
Ach b’éigean dó filleadh ar an taiseacht
is ar an mbaile.
Bhí air cúl a thabhairt
don mbáine.
Is iomaí oíche
a iarrann a bhean air go caoin
an chistin a fhágaint
is dul léi a luí.
Is aoibhinn leis
uaigneas an tsileáin ón sconna.
Is ceol aige
srannán an reoiteora:
Nótaí doimhne
á seimint go mall,
Gliúscáil ochlánach
a labhair le gach ball dá bheo.
Deireadh na Feide
Inniu féin
is cuimhin le muintir Aas
go mbíodh teanga
á feadaíl
ages na haoirí
fadó,
fead a ghabh
bealach fuaime an ghleanna
idir féarach is sráidbhaile,
fead a d’iompair
nuacht an lae
idir aoirí
agus na mná a d’oibrigh
sna goirt máguaird,
feadaíl nach dtuigtí
lasmuigh den bparóiste.
Nuair a tháinig na Naitsithe
choimeád an feadaíl
Giúdaigh slán ó chontúirt;
chuir scéalta an Résistance
ó bhéal go béal faoi rún;
chabhraigh le píolótaí ’bhí imithe amú
teorainn na Spáinne a aimsiú.
Níor chualathas ó shin í.
Maireann sí i gcuimhne na ndaoine,
an teanga feadaíola seo,
ach níl ar chumas éinne
na fuaimeanna a aithris.
Níor deineadh aon taifead.
Scéala ón Oirthear
Bhí fear i dtigh solais ar an Aird Mhór,
nó b’fhéidir gur i gCeann Heilbhic a bhí sé,
ach bhí sé chomh fada sin ina thost
gur bodhraíodh é.
Glaodh ar dhochtúirí,
ar quacks is ar bhean feasa
is tugadh gach saghas leighis is luibhe dó,
ach biseach níor tháinig air.
Bhí an bhodhaire sáite
chomh fada sin
siar ina chluasa
gur deineadh bodhrán de.
Nó, b’fhéidir, agus é teanntaithe sa tigh solais,
gur líonadh a cheann lán de ghleo,
gur ghabh táinrith smaointeoireachta tríd,
gur foilsíodh toradh gach tubaiste dó.
Pé ar bith é,
focal, fuaim ná fonn
níor chuala sé
choíche arís.
Irrintzina
Teanga scairte i dTír na mBascach a úsáidtear chun mothúcháin a chur in iúl.
Ó! Dá mbeimis ar bhur nós-sa, a Bhascacha
ag scaoileadh le gach racht go hard,
ag ligint le gach gomh, gach gol, gach guí, gach gairdeas
i sruth géar glórmhar, gáirtheach…
bheimis suairc is grágach.
Cró
Címid í ag tomhas an raghaidh sí isteach:
méid na trucaile trí fhráma an dorais,
Chonaiceamar a leithéid roimhe seo,
éiginnteacht ar an tairseach,
Ach ní gá di bheith idir dhá chomhairle,
slogfar í ar aon nós isteach i ríocht seo an teasa.
Tá scata again anseo cheana,
súile éisc orainn is sinn ag cur allais;
Tá an caife sa phota lag agus bog
is tá dream ag faire go géar ar an gclog,
Formhór againn beag beann ar an uair
just ag maireachtaint ó néal go búir,
An t-ocras ag diúl orainn le fada, le stáir,
an smior súite as gach cnámh,
Gleo damanta na háite seo ag réabadh,
cogarnaíl is geabaireacht is scréachadh.
Tá sí fós ar an tairseach ag faire isteach
ach níl aon dul siar aici ná aon teacht as.
Published April 22, 2024
© Ailbhe Ní Ghearbhuigh
Six Poems by Ailbhe Ní Ghearbhuigh
Written in Gaelic by Ailbhe Ní Ghearbhuigh
Translated into English by Paul Muldoon and Billy Ramsell
Emigrant
Her very first Fall
in the New World,
her main aim was to call
everything by a name,
to mark
things with her finger — the moss,
the wet tree bark,
the gloss
of a horse chestnut, the innermost part
of which had grown
as tender-moist
as her own . . .
till her mom dared
to stick her head out
of an upstairs
window and shout:
¡Oye chica, que frío, eh?!
¿Dondé està tu chaqueta?
Now her greatest desire
was to vanish off the face
of the earth, sinking into the mire
and leaving not a trace
.
She would put forth a bud
from that patch of earth,
out of that same mud
undergo a total rebirth.
Nothing she carried gene-wise
would ever break through her eyes.
Translated by Paul Muldoon
Return from Antarctica
He can still hear it:
the glaciers rasping,
their ratcheting in the distance,
the snow-quiet.
And still he remembers
gulping unsullied freshness
to clarify his lungs,
the holy coldness blessing his skin.
He gave his heart
to that stinging brightness,
that taciturn redoubt,
that uncluttered country.
But no choice except a return
to dampness and home.
He had to turn
his back on blankness.
On so many nights
his wife asks him tentatively
to abandon the kitchen
and join her upstairs.
He loves the irregular loneliness
of each tap-drip
and it’s music to him
the refrigerator’s drone:
basso profondo
slow in the recital,
grinding sighs that call out
to his being’s every element.
Translated by Billy Ramsell
Last Blast
Even now
the people of Aas can remember
the long-ago whistling
language
of shepherds,
whistles that followed
the acoustic echoey channel
from village to pasture,
whistles that carried
the day’s tittle-tattle
between herdsmen
and the women of the homesteads,
whistles not understood
beyond the limits of their parish.
When the Nazis invaded
the whistling-tongue kept
Jews from coming to harm;
it passed resistance messages,
secretly, from lip to pursed lip,
and helped crashed allied pilots
reach the border with Spain.
It hasn’t been heard since.
It has a half-life, this whistling language,
in the memories of certain parishioners
but none now are capable
of producing the sounds.
It was never recorded.
Translated by Billy Ramsell
Lighthouse Story
The man who manned the Big Height lighthouse —
or perhaps it’s Helvick where he was stationed —
put down such seasons of silence
he stopped hearing altogether.
The specialists assembled,
the quacks, the healing marujas
with every conceivable treatment.
But remission there came none.
The unhearing was entangled
so deeply
down in his ear canals
it deafened him forever.
Perhaps during his lighthouse confinement
his skull was loaded with noise,
with stampeding apprehensions,
with every wreck’s consequence.
In any event
verb, voice or vibration
never dared
his eardrum’s threshold again.
Translated by Billy Ramsell
Irrintzina
A shrieking language used in the Basque country to express emotions
If we could out with it like you, fine Basques,
letting every outburst out out loud
releasing wraths, laments, hosannas, gladnesses,
in an ecstatic, yelped, serrated flow…
O we’d be frog-voiced and full of love.
Translated by Billy Ramsell
Byre
We measure her measuring will she come in,
will her carriage pass through the doorframe.
We’ve registered this kind of thing before,
uncertainty at the threshold.
But no need for her – between two words- to hesitate,
she’ll be swallowed anyway, into this kingdom of heat
There’s a scatter of us here already,
salmon-eyed and sweating,
the coffee in our coffee-pots sweet and ineffectual.
A few of us monitor the clock on the wall
but most wouldn’t give you spilt milk for the hour,
stationed here between drowsiness and roaring,
the hunger sucking at us, braon i ndiaidh braon,
the matter slurped out of each bone
Oh how this cursed acoustic titillates and stabs,
the whispering and the shrieks and jibber-jabber
And still she cogitates athwart the doorframe
But the only way out for her is to come in.
Translated by Billy Ramsell
Published April 22, 2024
© Paul Muldoon
© Billy Ramsell
Six Poems by Ailbhe Ní Ghearbhuigh
Written in Gaelic by Ailbhe Ní Ghearbhuigh
Translated into Italian by Josephine Bohr
Emigrante
In quel primo autunno
nel Nuovo Mondo
voleva dare un nome
a ogni cosa
o toccarla
con le dita: muschio,
la corteccia bagnata degli alberi,
il riccio di una castagna d’India
con la parte interna
morbida e umida
come lei…
Finché sua madre
non si affacciò dalla finestra
del piano di sopra
e gridò:
¡Oye chica, que frío, eh?!
¿Dondé està tu chaqueta?
Ora desiderava solo
essere inghiottita
dal fango
fino alla punta dei capelli.
In quella terra
sarebbe germinata,
da quell’argilla
sarebbe emersa.
Per una volta il ramo
non somiglierebbe al tronco*
Ritorno dall’Antartide
Li sente ancora:
il crepitio dei ghiacciai
il loro scricchiolio lontano,
la quiete della neve.
E ancora ricorda quando
respirava freschezza incontaminata
per schiarire i polmoni,
il freddo sacro che benediva la pelle.
Ha lasciato il cuore
a quella chiarezza pungente,
a quel fortino taciturno,
a quella terra composta.
Ma l’unica scelta era tornare
all’umidità e a casa.
Voltare le spalle
al vuoto.
Spesso di sera sente la moglie
chiedergli incerta
di lasciare la cucina
e raggiungerla di sopra.
Ama la solitudine irregolare
di ogni goccia del rubinetto
e per lui è musica
il ronzio del frigorifero:
basso profondo
un’esecuzione lenta,
sospiri aspri che parlano
a ogni parte del suo essere.
Ultimo fischio
Ancora oggi
la gente di Aas ricorda
l’antica lingua di fischi
dei pastori,
fischi che seguono
le vie degli echi
dai villaggi ai pascoli,
fischi che portano
i pettegolezzi del giorno
dai mandriani
alle donne delle fattorie
fischi non capiti
oltre i limiti della regione.
Con l’invasione nazista
la lingua dei fischi salvò
la vita agli ebrei;
passò messaggi di resistenza,
segretamente, di labbro in labbro,
e guidò piloti alleati abbattuti
verso il confine spagnolo.
Da allora non si è più sentita.
Vive in parte, questa lingua di fischi,
nei ricordi di alcuni abitanti
ma oggi nessuno
sa riprodurre quei suoni.
Non fu mai registrata.
Storia del faro
Il guardiano del faro di Ardmore –
o forse era a Helvick –
visse così tante stagioni di silenzio
che smise di sentire.
Arrivarono medici,
ciarlatani, guaritrici
con i rimedi più straordinari.
Ma non ci fu guarigione alcuna.
La sordità, radicata
nel profondo
del canale uditivo,
lo assordò per sempre.
Forse durante l’isolamento al faro
la sua testa si caricò di rumore,
di apprensioni impetuose,
delle conseguenze di ogni naufragio.
In ogni caso
mai più verbo, voce o vibrazione
osò varcare
la soglia del tamburo del suo orecchio.
Irrintzina
Un particolare verso gridato usato nei Paesi Baschi per esprimere emozioni
Se solo potessimo essere come voi, baschi,
Esprimere ogni emozione con forza
liberando rabbia e dolore, esultanza, gioia
In un flusso estatico, acuto, intermittente
Saremmo senza voce e pieni d’amore.
Stalla
La guardiamo calcolare se entrerà,
se la carrozzina passerà dalla porta.
Conosciamo la scena:
incertezza sulla soglia.
Ma esitare non serve
verrà comunque inghiottita nel regno del calore
Siamo già in molte qui
sudate, stralunate;
Il caffè nella brocca è tiepido e leggero
alcune guardano attente l’orologio
La maggior parte di noi non bada al tempo,
sopravvive tra riposini e pianti,
Con la fame che ci succhia da secoli
il midollo risucchiato da ogni osso,
Il rumore qui ti devasta
bisbigli, chiacchiere, strilli.
È ancora sulla porta e guarda dentro
ma non può tornare indietro, non ha scampo.
Published April 22, 2024
© Josephine Bohr
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