Invitation to Mary
Translated by Peter Sirr
Where will you find this year, Mary,
shelter for your holy child?
Every door is shut against him
by human pride and human hatred.
Let me, if you’ll allow, invite you instead
to a distant island in the western sea.
Candles will shine a welcome in every window
and a turf fire blaze in every hearth.
Christmas 1942
Spring in the West
Translated by Peter Sirr
A man scraping clay
from the tread of a spade
in the mild calm
of a warm day:
sweet the sound
of Spring in the west.
A man slinging
a creel from his back,
the red seaweed
glittering
in the light
on a stone beach:
beautiful the sight
of Spring in the west.
Women standing,
their coats tucked up,
the ebbtide pools
like mirrors beneath them:
the peaceful sight
of Spring in the west.
The hollow beat
of oar strokes,
a currach full of fish
coming in to shore
on a still gold sea
at the end of the day:
Spring in the west.
Uprooted
Translated by Frank Sewell
Our fathers
And their fathers before them
Grappled with life,
Wrestling the bare rock.
Bliss was theirs
When they encountered
Nature’s beneficence,
And zeal was theirs
As they withstood
The power of the elements.
One man built a house,
Another a boundary
Or dry stone wall
That outlived him
And preserved his memory.
We, their children
And their children’s children,
Must hole up
In private rentals
Where the landlord
Would charge money
For the damp on the walls.
We’ll be remembered yet:
A pile of papers
Buried in dust,
Left behind
In a Govt. office.
Death of an Island
Translated by Frank Sewell
How sad being male in the wilderness,
With nothing but lonesomeness at home,
Each man’s vigour freezing up
Since he took sorrow as a bedmate.
And if our women rejected the burden,
Abandoned soil and rock, all duties
That their mothers knuckled down to,
I don’t believe it’s right to blame them.
If they threw off the yoke of custom,
Escaping all their neighbour’s whispers,
Still they shouldn’t be condemned;
It’s no sin being female there.
Everywhere, the old way of life
Is fading with every passing day;
Men and loneliness cohabiting –
The usual sign the end is nigh.
MS WORDOchón! A Dhonncha, mo mhíle cogarach, fen bhfód so sínte;
fód an doichill ‘na luí ar do cholainn bhig, mo loma-sceimhle!
Dá mbeadh an codladh so i gCill na Dromad ort nó in uaigh san Iarthar
mo bhrón do bhogfadh, cé gur mhór mo dhochar, is ní bheinn id’ dhiaidh air.
Is feoite caite ‘tá na blátha scaipeadh ar do leaba chaoilse;
ba bhreá iad tamall ach thréig a dtaitneamh, níl snas ná brí iontu.
‘S tá an bláth ba ghile liom dár fhás ar ithir riamh ná a fhásfaidh choíche
ag dreo sa talamh, is go deo ní thacfaidh ag cur éirí croí orm.
Och, a chumannaigh! nár mhór an scrupall é an t-uisce dod’ luascadh,
gan neart id’ chuisleannaibh ná éinne i ngaire duit a thabharfadh fuarthan.
Scéal níor tugadh chugham ar bhaol mo linbh ná ar dhéine a chruatain –
ó! ‘s go raghainn go fonnmhar ar dhoimhin-lic Ifrinn chun tú a fhuascailt.
Tá an ré go dorcha, ní fhéadaim codladh, do shéan gach só mé.
Garbh doilbh liom an Ghaeilge oscailt – is olc an comhartha é.
Fuath liom sealad i gcomhluadar carad, bíonn a ngreann dom’ chiapadh.
Ón lá go bhfacasa go tláith ar an ngaineamh thú níor gheal an ghrian dom.
Och, mo mhairg! Cad a dhéanfad feasta ‘s an saol dom’ shuathadh,
gan do láimhín chailce mar leoithne i gcrannaibh ar mo mhalainn ghruama,
do bhéilín meala mar cheol na n-aingeal go binn im’ chluasaibh
á rá go cneasta liom: ‘Mo ghraidhn m’athair bocht, ná bíodh buairt ort!’
Ó mo chaithis é! is beag do cheapas-sa i dtráth mo dhóchais
ná beadh an leanbh so ‘na laoch mhear chalma i lár na fóirne,
a ghníomhartha gaisce ‘s a smaointe meanman ar son na Fódla –
ach an Té do dhealbhaigh de chré ar an dtalamh sinn, ní mar sin a d’ordaigh.
Invitation to Mary
Translated by Peter Sirr
Where will you find this year, Mary,
shelter for your holy child?
Every door is shut against him
by human pride and human hatred.
Let me, if you’ll allow, invite you instead
to a distant island in the western sea.
Candles will shine a welcome in every window
and a turf fire blaze in every hearth.
Christmas 1942
Spring in the West
Translated by Peter Sirr
A man scraping clay
from the tread of a spade
in the mild calm
of a warm day:
sweet the sound
of Spring in the west.
A man slinging
a creel from his back,
the red seaweed
glittering
in the light
on a stone beach:
beautiful the sight
of Spring in the west.
Women standing,
their coats tucked up,
the ebbtide pools
like mirrors beneath them:
the peaceful sight
of Spring in the west.
The hollow beat
of oar strokes,
a currach full of fish
coming in to shore
on a still gold sea
at the end of the day:
Spring in the west.
Uprooted
Translated by Frank Sewell
Our fathers
And their fathers before them
Grappled with life,
Wrestling the bare rock.
Bliss was theirs
When they encountered
Nature’s beneficence,
And zeal was theirs
As they withstood
The power of the elements.
One man built a house,
Another a boundary
Or dry stone wall
That outlived him
And preserved his memory.
We, their children
And their children’s children,
Must hole up
In private rentals
Where the landlord
Would charge money
For the damp on the walls.
We’ll be remembered yet:
A pile of papers
Buried in dust,
Left behind
In a Govt. office.
Death of an Island
Translated by Frank Sewell
How sad being male in the wilderness,
With nothing but lonesomeness at home,
Each man’s vigour freezing up
Since he took sorrow as a bedmate.
And if our women rejected the burden,
Abandoned soil and rock, all duties
That their mothers knuckled down to,
I don’t believe it’s right to blame them.
If they threw off the yoke of custom,
Escaping all their neighbour’s whispers,
Still they shouldn’t be condemned;
It’s no sin being female there.
Everywhere, the old way of life
Is fading with every passing day;
Men and loneliness cohabiting –
The usual sign the end is nigh.
Ochón! A Dhonncha, mo mhíle cogarach, fen bhfód so sínte;
fód an doichill ‘na luí ar do cholainn bhig, mo loma-sceimhle!
Dá mbeadh an codladh so i gCill na Dromad ort nó in uaigh san Iarthar
mo bhrón do bhogfadh, cé gur mhór mo dhochar, is ní bheinn id’ dhiaidh air.
Is feoite caite ‘tá na blátha scaipeadh ar do leaba chaoilse;
ba bhreá iad tamall ach thréig a dtaitneamh, níl snas ná brí iontu.
‘S tá an bláth ba ghile liom dár fhás ar ithir riamh ná a fhásfaidh choíche
ag dreo sa talamh, is go deo ní thacfaidh ag cur éirí croí orm.
Och, a chumannaigh! nár mhór an scrupall é an t-uisce dod’ luascadh,
gan neart id’ chuisleannaibh ná éinne i ngaire duit a thabharfadh fuarthan.
Scéal níor tugadh chugham ar bhaol mo linbh ná ar dhéine a chruatain –
ó! ‘s go raghainn go fonnmhar ar dhoimhin-lic Ifrinn chun tú a fhuascailt.
Tá an ré go dorcha, ní fhéadaim codladh, do shéan gach só mé.
Garbh doilbh liom an Ghaeilge oscailt – is olc an comhartha é.
Fuath liom sealad i gcomhluadar carad, bíonn a ngreann dom’ chiapadh.
Ón lá go bhfacasa go tláith ar an ngaineamh thú níor gheal an ghrian dom.
Och, mo mhairg! Cad a dhéanfad feasta ‘s an saol dom’ shuathadh,
gan do láimhín chailce mar leoithne i gcrannaibh ar mo mhalainn ghruama,
do bhéilín meala mar cheol na n-aingeal go binn im’ chluasaibh
á rá go cneasta liom: ‘Mo ghraidhn m’athair bocht, ná bíodh buairt ort!’
Ó mo chaithis é! is beag do cheapas-sa i dtráth mo dhóchais
ná beadh an leanbh so ‘na laoch mhear chalma i lár na fóirne,
a ghníomhartha gaisce ‘s a smaointe meanman ar son na Fódla –
ach an Té do dhealbhaigh de chré ar an dtalamh sinn, ní mar sin a d’ordaigh.
