Filíocht Nua: New Poetry

Filíocht Nua:

New Poetry

Ar Maidin

Osclaím fuinneog na cistine
chun beach mhallaithe
an teasa a scaoileadh amach
is doirteann isteach:

glao antráthach coiligh
á thachtadh
ag lámh láidir an tsolais;
buillí casúir
ón láthair tógála
ag leagan scafall an chiúnais;

inneall tarracóra
a tharraingíonn toirneach
go híor na spéire;

glór eitleáin
chomh ramhar le seilide
a thuirling i Londain inné.

Morning

I open the window
to let out
the waspish heat
and in pours:

too-slow cock-crow
strangled
by the light;

hammer clouts
from the building site
walloping down walls of quiet;

tractor engine
dragging thunder
to the headland of the sky;

sound of a plane
round as a slug
landed in yesterday's London.

Uachtar Ard, Nollaig 2000

Ní cárta poist go baileach
ach teileagram ó mhol thuaidh
na samhlaíochta nár éirigh le Scott
ná le Shackleton a threascairt
is bratach thrídhathach na heolaíochta
a ropadh ina chroí ceansa sneachtaí.

Tá na laethanta a d'imigh
tar éis filleadh arís
i gcomhair na Nollag;
leanaimid rian a mbróg
ó dhoras go doras
i gcomharsanacht an tsíscéil.

Chualathas carúil á gcanadh
i bhfothrach na seaneaglaise
is dlúmh deataigh aníos
as simné nach ann
os cionn na tine a chuaigh as
i gcliabh an tsagairt pharóiste fadó.

Is an leanbh a fuair bás de neamhaird
i gcroí gach duine in Éirinn,
saolaíodh arís inár measc
le frasa sneachta a thit
gan choinne in Uachtar Ard aréir.

Mairfidh sé agus sí
agus sibh agus sinn
go brách na breithe
is go deo na ndeor,
nó go mbrisfidh
a racht uaignis

ar aingil Neimhe
is go dtitfidh
ina bháisteach nimhe
an t-uisce goirt
a thabharfaidh ár mbás.

Oughterard, Christmas, 2000

Not exactly a postcard,
more a telegram from the North Pole
of the imagination that Scott
or Shackleton never mastered,
plunging the tricolour of knowledge
into its gently snowy heart.

The days that went away
have come home again
for Christmas;
we follow their footprints
from door to door
in the suburbs of storytime.

Christmas carols have been heard
in the ruins of the old church
where smoke rises
from a chimney that isn't there
above the fire that went out
a long time ago
in the heart of the parish priest.

And the child that died of neglect
in the heart of every man
and woman in Ireland
was born again and dwelt among us
in drifts of snow that fell unexpectedly
from the heavens in Oughterard today.

He and she and we and they
will live forever and ever
till the angels above
are overcome by loneliness
and their salt tears
rain down on us here
destroying every living thing.

Cranndacht

Chuir sí crann caorthainn
sa ghairdín inniu

chuimil a préamhacha
sular neadaigh i bpoll

méara chomh slim
le duilliúr an chrainn

a roghnaigh sí
dem bhuíochas.

          Fiúise, ar ndóigh,
          a bhí uaimse,
          cloigíní fola,
          deora Dé.

Is fada léi, a deir sí,
go bhfásfaidh an crann
go dtí an fhuinneog i mbarr an tí
mar a gcodlaíonn sí,

smearadh cré
ar a lámha leonta cailín
is iníon rí Gréige ag siúl
na hallaí bána laistiar dá súil.

          Tá rian fola
          ar stoc an chrainn
          ina diaidh
          nach féidir
          le máthair na báistí
          a ghlanadh ná a leigheas.

Nuair a éiríonn an fhuil
i ngéaga an chaorthainn
dem bhuíochas, braithim
an chré ag análú go trom
sa seomra codlata in aice liom.

          Go domhain san oíche
          ionam féin, goileann Dia
          racht fiúisí os íseal;
          ní féidir a thocht a mhaolú.

Trees

She planted mountain ash
in...