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.