Poems

Louis De Paor

Celtic FUSION

The Singer
These two here in front of me
think he’s singing to only themwhen he plays a loving lament,
their fingers ache to be homewhere they can play on each
other till morning. The lonelyand the old flames are amazed
a man they’ve never met
has the broken tunes of their dreams
off by heart on the tip of his tongue.When he touches the strings
that tied them together the first timeever, the married couple in the corner
move closer in spite of themselves.When the sleeve of the man’s shirt
brushes his wife’s shoulder, a young fellaat the other end of the room
takes off his summer jumper and asks the barmanto turn the heat down for God Almighty’s sake.
The girl made lovely by sorrow prayshe’ll never rest until he finds her.
Outside, a fleet of sirens storms the night,squadcars, ambulances and fire-brigades
running from the fire that can’t be put outin the smouldering hearts of the men inside
who are late again for the neverending funeral.Beside the bridge, the morse code
of loneliness broadcast on flurriesof air is clear as day to the man
who has just jumped. The water is smoothas a sheet and he is deaf to the world
as the music fills his mouth,washing away a world of worries.
The singer keeps on strummingthe strings that stretch from the heart
to the mouth of his guitar.His cry is soft as the river, a blanket of water
drawn up over all our sleepy heads.An tAmhránaí
Is dóigh leis an mbeirt os mo chomhair
gur leosan amháin a labhrannnuair a chanann a gholtraí ghrámhar
is fada le barra a méargo mbeidh siad sa bhaile is cead
seanma ar a chéile acu go maidin.Is ait le haonaráin is le hiarleannáin
go mbeadh fonn briste a gcroíthe ar bharra theanga ag fear nár casadh orthu cheana.
Nuair a bhuaileann na sreanganna síodaa cheangail dá chéile an chéad lá riamh iad,
druideann an lánúin phósta dá mbuíochasi leith a chéile. Nuair a chuimlíonn uillinn
a léine sin le gualainn a mhná, baineannfear óg ar thaobh eile an tseomra
a gheansaí samhraidh de is iarrannar fhear an tí an teas a ísliú in ainm
dílis Dé. Guíonn an cailín a bhfuil áilleachtan bhróin ina gnúis go mbeidh sé gan chéile
nó go bhfaighidh sé í. Tá an oíche á reabadhag foireann na gclog: scuaine scuadcharr,
otharcharr is inneall dóiteáin ar a gcoimeádón tine nach féidir a mhúchadh
i gcuislí dóite na bhfear mór laistighatá mall chun na sochraide arís.
In aice an droichid, tá nodaireacht an uaignisar chuilithíní an aeir os a chionn léite go cruinn
ag an bhfear atá díreach tar éis léimt.Tá an t-uisce chomh mín le bráillín,
is tonn álainn an cheoil ina bhéalá bhodhradh ar bhuaireamh an tsaoil.
Leanann an ceoltóir ag seinmar na sreanganna fola a shíneann ón gcroí
go dtí béal a ghiotáir. Tá a chaoineadhchomh séimh le pluid na habhann
á tarraingt os ár gcionn go léir.Louis de Paor, born in Cork in 1961, has been involved with the contemporary renaissance of poetry in Irish since 1980 when he was first published in the poetry journal Innti which he subsequently edited for a time. A four times winner of the Seán Ó Ríordáin/Oireachtas Award, the premier award for a new collection of poems in Irish, he lived in Australia from 1987 to 1996. He is the recipient of the Lawrence O’Shaughnessy Award 2000, the first poet in Irish to achieve that distinction. A bilingual collection Ag greadadh bas sa reilig/Clapping in the Cemetery was published by Cló Iar-Chonnachta in November 2005 and reprinted in March 2006. His latest collection in Irish is Cúpla Siamach an Ama (The Siamese Twins of Time) published by Coiscéim in December 2006. A second bilingual volume agus rud eile de/and another thinghas just been published and includes artwork by Kathleen Furey and a recording of poems with musical settings by Ronan Browne. (The poems included here are from this book, with translations by Kevin Anderson, Biddy Jenkinson, and Mary O’Donoghue, with the author.)

Blackberries         Sméara Dubha
She plucks blood from the briars,         Priocann sí braonta fola den sceach,
her shadowed eyes as bright         súile daite chomh glé
as time to come         leis an am le teacht
that has not yet darkened her light.         nár dhoirchigh a hóige go fóill.
If I remember rightly, she says,         Más buan mo chuimhne, adeir sí,
a year after our return,         bliain tar éis filleadh ón iasacht,
the blackberries aren’t nearly as sweet         níl na sméara chomh blasta in aon chor
as last year’s snow.         le sneachta na bliana seo caite.
The white tide         Tá gile na taoide
is high as the sun         chomh hard leis an ngrian
surging in her pulse,         a líonann gach cuas dá cuisle,
and a thorn in her talk,         is dealg sa chaint i ngan fhios di
unbeknownst to her,         a réabann craiceann mo mhéar.
skins my fingers.
        Ba mhaith léi go mblaisfinn
She wants me to taste         den mhilseacht dhubh
the black sweetness,         atá chomh searbh
bitter as truth         leis an bhfírinne ghlan
on the tip of my tongue.         ar bharr mo theanga.
If I could take this day         Ó thabharfainn an lá seo
and all the little days         is na laethanta gearra go léir
of my life, now gone,         a tháinig roimhe dem shaol
I would, catch time by the throat,         ach greim scrogaill
and choke it until it stopped         a bhreith ar an uain
        is é a thachtadh,
so she could taste time and again
the leaving light of this day         go mblaisfeadh sí arís is arís eile
silent as last year’s snow         de sholas an lae seo ag dul as
that never fell (nor will fall)         chomh ciúin le sneachta na bliana seo caite
upon this earth.         nár bhuail (is nach mbuailfidh)
        urlár an tsaoil seo go deo.
Cycle         Rothar Mór an tSaoil
There I was         Bhíos-sa im shuí-
half sitt-         sheasamh,
ing, half stand-         sceabhach
ing, sideways,         sa diallait ar éigin,
in the saddle, sort of,         tóin le gaoth,
backside to the wind,         leis an saol leanbaí go léir
to the whole childworld         ba mhaith liom a fhágaint im dhiaidh,
I wished behind me,         chomh tuathalach
clumsy         le lachain an Ríordánaigh,
as Ó Ríordáin’s duck,         tusa agus saothar ort
and you running,         ag rith lem thaobh
breathless beside me         sa tslí nach dtitfinn
so I wouldn’t fall         i ndiaidh mo chinn.
headfirst.
        (Ag cuimhneamh siar dom anois air,
(If you ask me now,         is dóigh liom nár choinnigh tú
I don’t think you kept         oiread is barr lúidín sa diallait
even a fingertip on the saddle         mar a gheall tú go sollúnta a dhéanamh,
as you crossed your heart to do;         gurb é mo chreideamh ionatsa amháin
the only thing that kept me from falling         a choinnigh slán sa tsiúl mé.)
was my complete faith in you.)
        Nuair a d’éirigh liom ar deireadh
When I finally got the hang         an t-inneall místuama fém ghabhal
of that awkward contraption         a thiomáint, leanas orm ag treabhadh
between my legs, I kept on         thonnta an aeir chomh fada uait
pedalling the air,         agus ab fhéidir liom dul.
as far away from you
as I could get.         Airím ó am go chéile
        san aragal is sia isteach im chuimhne
Now and again I hear         do ghlao giorranálach im dhiaidh
in the farthest corner of my memory         dom chur uait ar bhóthar casta an tsaoil:
your laboured shout after me
sending me off on life’s knotted road:         ‘Coinnigh ort, a bhuachaill, coinnigh ort,
        is ar chraiceann do chluas,
‘Keep going, boy, keep going,         ná féach id dhiaidh.
and for the love of God,         Ná féach id dhiaidh.’
don’t look back.
Don’t look back.’         Ná níor fhéachas.
And I didn’t.         An uair dheireanach,
        creidim, ar imríodh
The last time,         cleas sin an chreidimh orm.
I believe, I was tricked
into believing anything.
Geography         Tíreolas
Well I asked for you at every house         Ó chuireas do thuairisc ag gach teach
every street corner every local         gach cúinne gach tábhairne sráide
from the river of shadows         ó abhainn an scáil go dtí baile an daingin
and even the dogs on the street         ráfla cumhra do ghéag
could not remember if as much as a rumour         a bheith cloiste ag éinne
of your scent had been heard         sa dúthaigh sin cheana.
by anyone for miles around forever.
        Nuair a d’fhéachas in airde
When I looked up         sa spéir dhorcha a bhí tagtha
to the black sky that had ousted         in áit an tsolais im mheabhair,
the light from my mind,         bhí na réalta os mo chionn
the stars above were cold         chomh fuar led shúil ghorm
as your blue eyes         an lá sin ar thráigh an chlochair
that day on Cloichear Strand         is an sioc ag leá i gcúinne amháin di.
with the frost melting in the corner.
        Tá’s agam go mb’éigean duit imeacht
I know you had to go;         nó nílim bodhar ar fad ar fad.
I’m not—no, not—stone deaf.         Má dúraís aon uair amháin é,
If you said it once,         do chuala cluais ghadhair mo chroí
the dog-ears of my heart         míle uair cheana an ní
had heard a thousand times before         nár mhaith leat a rá ós ard
what you couldn’t say out loud:
        go raibh fear ag fanacht ort
that the man who was waiting for you         a raibh diamhair na gréine
had eyes as deep as the sun,         is uaisleacht na gcnoc ina shúil;
proud as the hills;         ní chreidfeá riamh ná raibh ann
you’d never have believed me         ach frithchaitheamh an tsolais
that it was only the light reflected         ód chuntanós álainn ag teacht idir tú
by your precious face blinding you         is doircheacht ghrinneall na habhann.
to the dark of the river-bed.
        Tagann scéal chugam ó uair go chéile
From time to time I hear         go bhfacthas tú sa chathair cham
that someone has seen you         a dhírigh ár gcumann siúlach seal;
in the crooked town that straightened         tá fear id theannta, adeirtear,
our path once upon a time;         is ní gile na réalta ina seasamh
there’s a man with you, or so they say,         ná gáire a bhéil gan scáil
and the stars at night         nuair a luíonn do shúil air,
are no brighter than his perfect smile         tinn agus (nach mór) lán dá ghrá.
when you lay your eyes on him,
sick and (almost) full of love.
Uachtar Ard, Nollaig 2000         Uachtar Ard, Nollaig 2000
Not exactly a postcard,         Ní cárta poist go baileach
more a telegram from the North Pole         ach teileagram ó mhol thuaidh
of the imagination that Scott         na samhlaíochta nár éirigh le Scott
or Shackleton never mastered,         ná Shackleton a threascairt
plunging the tricolour of knowledge         is bratach thrídhathach na heolaíochta
into its gently snowy heart.         a ropadh ina chroí ceansa sneachtaí.
The days that went away         Tá na laethanta a d’imigh
have come home again         tréis filleadh arís
for Christmas;         i gcomhair na Nollag;
we follow their footprints         leanaimid rian a mbróg
from door to door         ó dhoras go doras
in the suburbs of storytime.         i gcomharsanacht an tsíscéil.
Christmas carols have been heard         Chualathas carúil á gcanadh
in the ruins of the old church         i bhfothrach na seaneaglaise
where smoke rises         is dlúmh deataigh aníos
from a chimney that isn’t there         as simné nach ann
above the fire that went out         os cionn na tine a chuaigh as
a long time ago         i gcliabh an tsagairt pharóiste fadó.
in the heart of the parish priest.
        Is an leanbh a fuair bás de neamhaird
And the child that died of neglect         i gcroí gach duine in Éirinn,
in the heart of every man         saolaíodh arís inár measc
and woman in Ireland         le frasa sneachta a thit
After the Revolution         Tar éis na réabhlóide
Today a tall ship has come ashore         Tá bád mór seoil tar éis teacht i dtír
from the sea-blue sky         ón spéir mhuirghorm
in the exercise-yard at Kilmainham.         i gclós Chill Mhaighneann inniu,
The timber hull is dry         cabhail chláir chomh tirim
as chalk and the blade of the rudder         le cailc is lann an innill
blunt as an abandoned plough         chomh maol le seanchéachta
in the field of history. The wasted/td>        i ngort na staire. Tá an talamh
ground is hard as a sledgehammer;         bán chomh crua le hord
no team of harnessed pens         is seisreach pinn ní leor
could break this devastated earth.         leis an ithir bhocht a threabhadh.
Silver waves, clean         Tá tonnta airgid chomh glan
as knives, tear the skin         le sceana ag réabadh chraiceann
of children who have mobilised         na leanaí atá éirithe amach
on the filthy streets of Dublin,         ar shráideanna lofa Átha Cliath,
their punctured veins destroyed by rain.         a gcuislí pollta millte ag a bhfearthainn.
There’s a cargo of untold stories         Tá lasta scéal gan insint
in the hold of the ship that landed         i mbroinn an bháid a thuirling
in John Lonergan’s heart just now         i gcroí John Lonergan ó chianaibh
that would fill the Four Courts         a líonfadh na Ceithre Chúirteanna
and the National Library with shame         is an Leabharlann Náisiúnta le náire,
while living shadows in the prison-yard         is na scáileanna a mhaireann
are soaked to the skin         i gclós an phríosúin
by the slow trickle         fliuch go craiceann ag an uiscealach
from the minister’s bleeding heart.         a shileann ó bhéal binn an Aire.
In Leinster House,         I dTeach Laighean,
the sons and daughters of the revolution         tá sliocht na réabhlóide
go on and on about the weather.         ag gearán faoin drochaimsir.

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