Foraois Bháistí
I mbreacsholas na maidine, leagaim uaim an scuab
nuair a aimsím radharc nach bhfacthas cheana
ag dealramh ar an mballa: fuinneog úr snoite as solas,
líonta le duilleog-dhamhsa. Múnlaíonn géaga crainn
lasmuigh na gathanna gréine d’fhonn cruthanna dubha
a chur ag damhsa ar an mballa fúthu, an duilliúr ina chlúmh
tiubh glas, an solas ag síothlú is ag rince tríothu.
Fuinneog dhearmadta ar dhomhain eile atá ann, áit agus am
caillte i gcroí na Brasaíle, áit a shamhlaím fear ag breathnú
ar urlár na foraoise, ar an mbreacscáth ann, faoi dhraíocht
ag imeartas scáile, dearmad déanta aige ar an léarscáil,
ar an bpár atá ag claochlú ina lámh: bánaithe anois,
gan rian pinn air níos mó, gan ach bearna tobann
ag leá amach roimhe. Airíonn sé coiscéim
agus breathnaíonn sé siar thar a ghualainn,
mar a bhreathnaímse thar mo ghualainn anois,
ach ní fheiceann ceachtar againn éinne.
Níl éinne ann.
Rainforest
In morning’s piebald light. I set aside my duster
on finding a view I’ve never noticed before
surfacing on the wall, a new window, sunlight-snipped,
filled with shadow-twist and leaf-flit. Branches shape
the sunlight from outside, sculpting dark forms
and setting them dancing on the wall, green-furred with foliage,
light swaying and simmering through. I watch it become
a window to some other world, a time and place forgotten,
lost in a Brazilian forest, where I imagine a man stands, gazing
at the forest floor, at the reflected speckle-shadow, enthralled
by the play of shade he sees there, and he is forgetting his map,
the parchment that is swiftly transforming in his hand, emptying
itself now, until no trace of a pen remains and a sudden void
stretches before him. He hears a footstep and his breath quickens,
a gasp, a fast-glance back over his shoulder,
as I glance over my shoulder now, too,
but neither of us see anyone.
No one is there.
(Don Té a Deir nach bhfuil Gá le Bronntanas i mBliana)
Tosaím i gcroí na Samhna. Cíoraim gach seilf,
gach siopa, gach suíomh idirlíon. Caithim laethanta
fada ag cuardach fuinneoga na cathrach ach fós,
ní thagaim ar an bhféirín cuí.
Tagann agus imíonn na seachtainí. Táim ar tí
éirí as, in ísle brí, go dtí go ndúisíonn glór na gaoithe
i lár na hoíche mé, freagra na faidhbe aici.
Tabharfaidh mé boladh na báistí duit, a chroí.
Meán oíche. Siúlaim síos staighre ar bharraicíní
chun múnlán oighir a leagan ar leac fuinneoige.
Oíche beo le báisteach atá romham,
díle bháistí á scaoileadh sa ghairdín.
Amach liom, cosnochta faoin mbáisteach.
Bailíonn braonta na hoíche isteach sa phlaisteach,
seomraí beaga bána ag borradh le huiscí suaite
na spéire tite, dromchla gach ciúb ar crith le scáil
na scamall tharstu, agus ina measc, blúirí den spéir
réaltbhreac. Ritheann creatha fuachta tríom agus fillim
ar an tigh, rian coise fliucha fágtha i mo dhiaidh.
Sa reoiteoir, iompóidh an bháisteach ghafa ina hoighear.
Cruafaidh scáileanna réalta ann, claochlú ciúin, fuar.
B’fhéidir nach n-inseoidh mé an scéal seo duit riamh.
I ngan fhios duit, ar iarnóin Nollag, b’fhéidir
go líonfaidh mé gloine leis an oighear ar do shon,
féirín uaim, cuimhneachán d’oíche nach bhfaca tú,
nuair a d’éalaíos uait, chun braonta agus réalta
a bhailiú duit. I ngloine, sínfidh mé féirín dúbailte
chugat – boladh na báistí agus luas a titime araon.
Scaoilfidh mé braon ar bhraon le titim tríot,
báisteach na hoíche ag stealladh ionat, á slogadh
scornach go bolg, titim réaltbhreac tobann.
Bronntanas.
(For One who Says that No Gift is Needed this Year)
I begin in November, and search every shelf,
every shop, every website. So many afternoons,
spent peering through windows, and still
I can’t find a gift for you.
Weeks come, weeks go, and I become glum,
I begin to think that I’ll have to give up. But tonight,
the wind’s voice wakes me and her answer is clear.
I will capture the smell of rain for you, my dear.
At midnight, I tiptoe downstairs
to place a plastic tray on the windowsill
and find the night alive with rain,
a flood-fall spinning in the garden.
Barefoot, the rain lurching around me, I watch
drops rush into the plastic cubes until all
the small white rooms brim with storm-waters;
between surface reflections of cloud,
slivers of a vast dark speckled with stars.
Shivering, I turn back home, drizzling damp
footprints after me. In the freezer,
this captured rain will turn to ice.
Stars will harden and take hold in a transformation
both silent and cold. Maybe I won’t tell you.
Maybe on a Christmas afternoon, I’ll just
fill your glass with these ice cubes, a silent gift
from me to you, souvenir of a night you never knew,
when I crept out to catch rain and stars and parcel them
in ice for you. When I hand you a glass it’ll be a twin present –
both the scent of rain, and the velocity of a fall.
The drops will plunge again, a night-rain
moving inside you, gullet
to gut, a sudden, star-dappled plummet.
A gift.
Foraois Bháistí agus dánta eile le Doireann Ní Ghríofa & english translations by the poet
Faoi Ghlas
Tá sí faoi ghlas ann fós, sa teach tréigthe,
cé go bhfuil aigéin idir í agus an teach
a d’fhág sí ina diaidh.
I mbrat uaine a cuid cniotála, samhlaíonn sí
sraitheanna, ciseal glasa péinte
ag scamhadh ón mballa sa teach inar chaith sí —
— inar chas sí eochair, blianta
ó shin, an teach atá fós ag fanacht uirthi,
ag amharc amach thar an bhfarraige mhór.
Tá an eochair ar shlabhra aici, crochta óna muineál
agus filleann sí ann, scaití, nuair
a mhothaíonn sí cloíte. Lámh léi
ar eochair an tslabhra, dúnann sí a súile agus samhlaíonn
sí an teach úd cois cladaigh, an dath céanna
lena cuid olla cniotála, na ballaí gorm-ghlas,
teach tógtha ón uisce, teach tógtha as uisce
agus an radharc ann:
citeal ag crónán, gal scaipthe, scaoilte
ó fhuinneog an pharlúis, na toir i mbladhm,
tinte ag scaipeadh ar an aiteann
agus éan ceoil a máthair ag portaireacht ina chliabhán,
ach cuireann na smaointe sin ceangal ar a cliabhrach
agus filleann sí arís ar a seomra néata, ar lá néata
eile sa teach
altranais, teanga na mbanaltraí dearmadta aici,
seachas please agus please agus please,
tá sí cinnte de nach dtuigeann siad cumha
ná tonnta ná glas. Timpeall a muiníl,
ualach an eochair do doras a shamhlaíonn sí
faoi ghlas fós, ach ní aontaíonn an eochair sin
leis an nglas níos mó tá an chomhla dá hinsí i ngan fhios di
an tinteán líonta le brosna préacháin
fós, fáisceann sí an chniotáil chuig a croí
ansin baineann sí dá dealgáin í, á roiseadh go mall arís,
arís, na línte scaoilte ina ceann agus ina gceann
snáth roiste: gorm-ghlas gorm-ghlas gorm-ghlas
gorm-ghlas gorm-ghlas gorm-ghlas amhail cuilithíní
cois cladaigh nó roiseanna farraige móire. Sracann sí
go dtí go bhfuil sí féin faoi
ghlas le snáth á chlúdach ó mhuineál go hucht.
Ansin, ceanglaíonn sí snaidhm úr, snaidhm docht,
ardaíonn sí na dealgáin agus tosaíonn sí arís.
Under Lock and Green
She is locked there still, in the empty house,
despite the ocean between her and this house,
the one she left behind her.
In the green sweep of her knitting she imagines
layers, green layers of paint
a wall peeling in the house where she spent –
– where she turned a key, years
ago, before, the house that is still waiting for her
gazing over a vast ocean.
She wears the key on a chain that hangs at her throat
and she returns there, sometimes, when
she feels weak. With one hand
over that chained key, she closes her eyes and daydreams
that house by the beach, the same colour
as her wool, the walls blue-green,
a house from water, a house of water
and the view there:
a fretting kettle, its steam loose, leaving
through the parlour window, where the furze is aflame,
fires swelling through the gorse,
and her mother’s songbird chirping in its cage,
but thoughts like these bind her chest too tightly
so she lets go, and returns to this neat little room,
little day
another in this home
this home for the elderly where she forgot the nurses’ words
years ago
except please and please
and please, and she’s certain
that they understand neither cumha
nor tonnta nor the glas at her throat,
the weight of a key for a door she imagines
still locked, but the key won’t slot
into her remembered lock the door has fallen from its hinges
in her absence
the hearth fills with the kindling
of crows
still, she nestles her knitting in near her heart
then lifts it from the needles, unravels it slowly again,
again, the lines released one by one
unravelled, the thread: blue-green blue-green blue-green
blue-green blue-green blue-green like little ripples
scribbling on the shore or immense ripping oceans.
She tears
until she is under
lock and green again, with wool covering her neck and chest.
Then, a breath, and then, she ties a new knot,
lifts the needles and begins again.
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Chris Murray 