Dánta Úra: New Poems

DÁNTA ÚRA: NEW POEMS 56 DÁNTA ÚRA: NEW POEMS LOUIS DE PAOR LÁ SA LÚNASA AR AN gCEATHRÚ RUA Iarnóin ar an mbaile tá boladh bairneach san aer iarcheatha, tá rothar ag tindeáil doras deochlainne, bogha báistí ar a dhiallait leathair. Cuardaíonn méara garraíodóra leamhain faoi sciortaí cabáiste, cruinníonn silteáin uisce bros fearthainne le glogarnach glórach dá scornach slóchta. Pléascann seilidí i dtine sliogán, scoilteann sluasaid piast, triomaíonn crainn le geáitsí glasa, líonn mada lapaí cait. Ní thuigeann an ghrian an greann. DÁNTA ÚRA: NEW POEMS 57 AUGUST IN CARRAROE After noon in the village the rained on air smells of barnacles, a bicycle keeps a weather eye on a bar door, a rainbow perched on its leather saddle. A gardener with green fingers is rummaging for moths under skirts of cabbage, the wrack of summer showers rattles and gurgles down the throat of parched pipes and thirsty ditches. Snails explode in a bonfire of shells, a spade splits a worm, trees shake themselves dry, a dog licks the cat’s paws. The sun is not amused. DÁNTA ÚRA: NEW POEMS 58 CLANN LIR Dé Domhnaigh tar éis Aifrinn tagann páistí smugacha ar a rothair le spros aráin go dtí an loch mar a gcuardaíonn an eala a scáil féin san uisce modartha. Luíonn an spéir chomh trom le clogán naoimh ar a mhuineál págánach lúbtha le tuirse na gcéadta bliain ag feitheamh le ceol píbe a phléascfaidh a chuisle clúimh, ag foghlaim an bháis go mall mar a bheadh méara túta linbh le port simplí ar an bhfeadóg stáin. DÁNTA ÚRA: NEW POEMS 59 THE CHILDREN OF LIR Sunday after Mass snot-nosed kids on bikes bring breadcrumbs to the lough where the swan searches for his own shadow in the murky water. Clear skies of June press heavy as a saint’s bell on his pagan neck stooped after hundreds of years waiting for throatmusic to burst from his feathered pulse, learning death slowly as a child’s awkward fingers playing a simple tune on a penny whistle. DÁNTA ÚRA: NEW POEMS 60 FABHALSCÉAL Nuair a chastar na cnoic ar a chéile sa chearnóg ar chúl an aonaigh labhrann siad canúint ológ is fraoigh na gcríonfhear ar bhinsí cloiche ag caint ar ísleáin is ardáin a mbeatha thar lear na mblianta imirce, aolsolas suirplísgheal na Meánmhara chomh toll le buillí clog um mheánlae ag caismirneach as umar a mbéal mantach agus fiacail óir na gréine ag glioscarnach ina mbéarlagar cailce. Tráchtann siad ar laethanta brothaill chomh mall le miúil spadchosach fé chliabh ag cur thar maoil le tráthnóintí fada a d’aibigh fén teas maoth amhail marana cneasdorcha na gcrónfhear a mhaireann anois ar an mín a bhí chomh hard chomh hamscaí le sliabh nó gur chrom a nguaillí fé róualach na scamall a bhrostaigh a gcroithe thar a mbuille séimh. Tá srúillí donnrua anois sna súile ruaimneacha a chonaic aibhnte chomh geal le fiacla gearrchaile ag sníomh thar chom na gcnoc seanda, áiríonn a méara pairilíseacha snagbhuillí croí ar phaidrín na himní is croitheann siad láimh le chéile go dlúth le hiontas gur sheasadar seachtain eile os cionn talaimh,le heagla gurb é an uair dheireanach é. FABLE When the mountains get together in the square behind the market they speak a language of olives and heather, the argot of old men who sit on stone benches talking of the ups and downs of their lives across the seas of immigrant years, a surplice-white Mediterranean light pouring from the well of their gapped mouths and the sun like a gold tooth gleaming in their chalk-white talk. They speak of sultry days slow as a flatfooted mule, panniers brimming with long afternoons that ripened in the moist heat like...