Filíocht Nua: New Poetry

LEICTREACHAS STATACH

Scaoilim leo i m'ainneoin féin.Ag geata na scoile, ligim le mo ghreimar a lámha go drogallach, agus nuair a fheiciman lasadh ina ngruanna, ní bhrúim póg orthu.Imíonn siad trí na doirse gan breathnú siar.

Fillim abhaile i m'aonaragus tagaim orthu sa triomadóir éadaigh,a ngéaga snaidhmthe ina chéile, fite fuaitele leictreachas statach, a gcuid léinte filltei mbaclainn mo gheansaí, fáiscthe le m'ucht.

Nuair a dhéanaim iarrachtna héadaí a scaradh, teannann siadle chéile le spréachadh aibhléiseagus baineann siar díomde gheit.

STATIC ELECTRICITY

I let them go, in spite of myself.At the school gate, I release my graspon their hands with reluctance, and when I noticetheir blush-lit cheeks, I don't press kisses on them.They walk through the doors without glancing back.

I return home aloneand find them in the clothes dryer,their limbs tangled, twisted,gripped with static electricity, their little shirtsbetween my sweater sleeves, pressed to my breast.

When I attemptto pull those clothes apart, they clingto each other, with electric sparksthat take me aback. They throw me offwith static shock.

TUATHAL

Cuirim eochair i bpoll an téitheora    agus casaim an chomhla tuathal—siar, siar,go dtí go gcloisim sileadh an uisce    ag glugarnach as i mbraonta tiubha,an t-aer a bhí srianta scaoilte arís.    Le clic agus trice-tic, filleann cuisle an phíopa,ag tarraingt teas ar ais trí chóras soithíoch an tí,    trí fhéitheacha agus artairí folaithe faoi chraiceannna mballaí—rúndiamhracht an ní nach bhfeictear    a bhogann faoin dromchla, amhail oibriú cloig.Smaoiním siar ar an gclog clinge i dteach mo sheanmháthar    agus an scéal a d'insíodh sí i gcónaífaoi lá samhraidh agus í ina bean óg nuaphósta,    fágtha ina haonar chun an dinnéar a réiteach.Tableau: an béile réidh, bord leagtha, an t-urlár scuabtha,    sheas sí ag fanacht orthu, a lámha trom gan ualachoibre orthu. Chonaic sí ansin go raibh an clog ina stop,    agus dhreap sí ar stól chun é a thochras,an eochair ina dorn aici    nuair a chaith a hathair céile an doras ar oscailt,ag búireadh nach mbeadh sé de chead aici riamh    méar a leagan ar spré a chéile. Ní dhearna sídearmad ar a fhocail, dúirt sí, gach uair ina dhiaidh sin    gur chuir an clog céanna ar stól í, le heochaira bhrú sa pholl agus é a chasadh tuathal—siar, siar    go dtí gur chuala sí clic agus trice-tic,cuisle an chloig fillte arís—córas casta an tsaoil,    a chuid féitheacha agus artairí, agus rúndiamhrachtshíoraí an ní nach bhfeictear, a bhogann i gcónaí    faoi dhromchla ár laethanta.

COUNTER-CLOCKWISE

I place the key in the radiator slot    and twist the valve withershins—back,back, until I hear the liquid drip, the fall    of fat glottal drops, gas, freedand the click and trickle trick of pipe-pulse    sending heat through the house'scirculatory system, all its veins and arteries    concealed under a skin of walls—the mystery of that which moves under the surface    like clockwork. I think of the chiming clockin my grandmother's house and the story she often told,    the one where it was a summer's day and she,a newly-arrived bride left alone to prepare the midday meal.    The dinner ready, table laid, floor swept, she stood,waiting, hands heavy with the lack of tasks. Seeing    that the clock had stopped, she climbed on a stoolto correct it, the winding key gripped in her fist    when her husband's father threw open the door,roaring that she should never again lay a finger    on his wife's dowry.She remembered those words,    she always said, every time the old clockput...