Filíocht Nua: New Poetry

Filíocht Nua:

New Poetry

Iníon Galileo

Tá sé lámhscríofa i láthair fianaise
I seaneaglais San Lorenzo
I Leabhair na mBaistí, lomcnámha a breithe:

A hainm bhaiste, ainm na máthar,
An admháil oifigiúil
Gur as an striapachas a gineadh í.

I bhfíoraíocht na réalta, d'aithin Galileo
An cosán conaire
A bhí geallta dá inion i mbealach na bó finne,

Rabhachán neimhe ag nochtú na lúibe
In a tuismeá
Idir lán-sholas na gréine is lag-sholas an ré,

Léarscáil nár chríochnaigh sé.

*

Ar an taobh thall do chaiseal San Matteo,
Cuireann Suor Maria Celeste roimpi
Cith litreach a sheoladh chuig a h-athair uasal,

A tiarna ceana a sholáthair dídean is bia dí
I gClochar na Cláiríní Bochta.
A ceann crom ar a cuid oibre, lean sí

Gan dicheall go foirceann na beatha é
Ar a thaisteal
Ag treabhadh na mórspéire faoi dhraíocht

An ghrianréalta, ceo na dáighe a scaipeadh.
Agus fiú nuair a bhuail coradh
Tuathail é, thaobhaigh sí leis i bhfeacadh glúine,

I dteach a tógadh ar fhuílleach a pheaca.

Galileo's Daughter

Written by hand
in the presence of witnesses
in the old chapel of San Lorenzo;

there in the plumped up baptismal book,
the bare bones of her birth:

The name of the mother—
Alongside the official submission
that she was born of fornication

In sketches of the zodiac, he plots her orbit,
the momentum promised to his daughter
in the heavens' ledger; sees her face
splinter in the candle-lit lenses,

the quirks in her horoscope playing tricks
with the spyglass in his hand.

*

On the far side of the castle of San Matteo,
Sister Marie Celeste casts off a shower of letters
To her illustrious father,

the noble lord who provides her with board and lodging
In the convent of the Poor Clares. Her head bent,
she follows him in prayer to the ends of the earth

as he ploughs the furrows of heaven
under the spell of the sunstar. And even when he errs
in calculating the swing of the pendulum,

She sides with him in penance in a house
Built on the axis of his sin.

Fabhealscéal Calvino

Leath bealaigh ó bhaile,
Ar an taobh thall den gabhal,
Siúd leis ag ciorclú ar bhearaibh neimhe—
goimh an gheimhridh air,

Ag fanach ar an loco
nach bhfuil ag teach choíche;
fear cuasleicneach i bhfásach na hoíche,
feadóg na traenach geallta dó

agus lóchrann na cruinne
gan a bheith múchta.

I dtámhnéal an tséasúir, airíonn sé
Traein ag falaireacht isteach, gan stad,
A scáth féin neamhnaithe
i mbóchna plódaithe an charráiste,

é ag gliúcaiocht tri cheo na fuinneóige—
scáil bánaithe, srianta a bhaithis
ag dul i ndearmad, ar nós
dúcheist chomhthíoch ar foluain,

ach gutha a phiocadh as foclóirín póca,
iaraiglifí as sifín súl.

Ar an ardán iargúlta úd, ceapann sé
Airbhe draodh-ghonta mar gheasa
ar an seanbholadh a tá ag sluaisteáil
briathra i mbéalaibh stad na traenach.

Cé a shamhlódh é

nar airígh sé an dubh-oscailt
is an traein imithe air?

If on A Winter's Night a Traveller
after Calvino (1923–1985)

knows that the world is November and it's raining
and the last train is gone,

that fellow passengers have made their connections
or have arrived and left the platform

where he stays put like a late-night conductor
with his collar crunched up

craning to where interlocking lines will cross,
a whistle stop down the line,

his face set to break into the margins of a page
of manifests and schedules, then trails off

in parentheses . . . beneath an exit sign;

*

or, if on...