Filiocht Nua: New Poetry

Sionnach

Tráthnóna beag, siúlaimid i dtreo an tábhairne,
Blianta ár gcaidrimh mar chraiceann tiubh ar chomhrá.
Dul ó sholas, agus scáileanna ar thalamh,
Bícearnach codlatach éan, anonn is anall na n-ialtóga.

Chím é, ag siúl na seaniomairí fada, é íseal, ceart,
Trasna ó chlaí go claí, ar a choimhéad ach ag seilg: sionnach.
Imíonn díreach, gan mhoill gan deifre, ar chosa tapa,
Smut íseal, eireaball ag scuabadh drúchta. Stánaimid.

Baineann sé amach an t-ard beag, tiontaíonn,
Amharcann siar orainn faoi amhras, rian den dúshlán ann.
Fios aige nach aon díobháil sinn, téann faoi thom.
Pógaimid. Athraíonn mian. Fillimid ar theach.

Fox

At twilight we walk towards the pub.
Our years together add facets to the conversation.
Light fades, shadows lengthen on the fields,
birds bicker, bats bolt by.

We see him, lowslung,
course the lazybeds
from hedge to hedge, hunting on the run,
quick legs at even pace,
nose down, tail brushing dew.
We stare.

From a small height, he turns
to look back at us, unsure, a taste of challenge,
knows we are no threat,
goes out of sight under a whin.

Standing, we kiss, and our desire
sends us back the small road to the house.

Strainséir

Earc bheag luachra, fireann donn ar an leac ghlas,
Ag siúl an urláir ó bhalla na síne go balla na díne,
Casann sé a eireaball go mall, tógann a cheithre uillinn,
Ceann i ndiaidh a chéile os cionn a choirp,
Cúig mhéar ar gach láimh ag méirínteacht an bhealaigh.

Tá óg, mo dhragan beag, chomh hóg léis an fhrog
A rinne an turas céanna ag tús an tsamhraidh,
(Buachaillí bó a dhiúltaíonn don tsreang dheilgneach is mise,
Trasna na machaire ba theach tais folamh leis na blianta.)
Glacaim leis na feithidí—gach cliabh móna, is long choilínithe.
Lucha agus leamhain ní miste a roinnt den spás liom.

Aithním gur sona na péisteanna seo, frog is earc,
Ach na mílte glún ó shin níor chairde iad
Agus nuair a chuirim cúl mo mhéire lena gcraiceann, craithim.

Tógaim cárta poist, fanaim go dtránn a amhras, go dtéann sé air,
Tugaim amach chun na fearthainne, chun na sráide é,
Tiontaím an cárta sa dorchadas,
Guím nach dtiteann sé ar a dhroim, go ritheann chun foscaidh.
Is oth liom gur theip orm fáilte a chur roimhe.

Nó bheith múinte roimh a fháiltesean.

Intruder

Dust coloured on grey flagstone,
a lizard—small, male—walks the kitchen floor
from bad weather wall to good weather wall.
Slowly he swings his tail
and lifts four elbows, one by one,
over his body as he walks.
Five fingers of each hand
feel the way.

He is young, my little dragon,
young as the frog
who made the same journey
in early summer.
Cowboys both,
blind to my hostility
and the change I made.
This house, empty and damp,
had been, for years, their prairie.

I accept the insects,
each creel of turf an immigrant ship.
Mouse and moth may share my space.
I accept, too,
the lore that frog and lizard bring good luck,
but I can't forget that generations ago
this lizard's dragon forebears terrorised.
When my fingers touch his skin
my skin crawls.

I take a postcard,
wait till his doubt declines
and he walks on.
I lift him to the dark yard and the rain
and pray he falls the right way up
and runs for cover.

I regret I lacked the grace
to welcome him.
Or accept, with grace, his welcome.

Scéal an Fhir Óig

Tháinig sé i méadaíocht, rinne fear
Is chuir fios na máthar...