Simon Ó Faoláin

Poetry

1. WINNOWING / AG CÁITHEADH

   

   

   ENGGLE

   Here we go again,

   trying to separate

   life’s brilliant possibilities

   from the cushy numbers

   we’ve settled for.

   In the end

   none of us will know

   whether it was the wheat or the chaff

   that flew off in the wind.

   Translated by Peter Sirr

   Seo linn ag iarraidh
   féidearthachtaí éigríochta an tsaoil
   a scaradh ó
   na cúinsí teoranta ab áil linn.
   
   Ag an dé deiridh
   n’fheadar éinne againn
   cé acu é
   an cháith nó
   an gráinne
   a scaoileadh le gaoth.

2. THE WEATHER ON MARS / AIMSIR

   

   

   ENGGLE

   A dark, spirit-slumping

   woolly-hat-pulled-down-even-inside

   kind of day. Beside me

   the black cat snores in his chair,

   folded in on himself. On the hob

   spuds boiling for the hens …

    

   Something I heard recently

   is lodged in my inner eye:

   that snow falls from the skies of Mars,

   pouring down from the black depths

   only to vaporise

   before it could touch the ground.

    

   The snow sings in its great distances

   and the cats joins in:

   not ours to reason why,

   our lot is to freeze and melt,

   freeze and melt forever,

   the red will never be white.

   Translated by Peter Sirr

   Lá dorcha gránna, beifeá bailithe;

   Caipín olla de dhíth sa chistin,

   An cat dubh ar chathaoir

   bísithe timpeall air féin.

   Laistiar díom corcán prátaí gréine

   Á mbeiriú dos na cearca.

    

   Fionnachtan a chuala ó chianaibh

   Reoite tamall im’ shamhlaíocht;

   Go mbíonn sneachta á chur ó spéartha Mharsa,

   Go saolaítear é na mílte in airde

   Is go ndéantar gal dó in athuair

   Sara sroicheann riamh tonn talún.

    

   Canainn lóipíní thar fholús fairsing

   Is ardaíonn an cat guth i gcomhcheol;

   Ní h-ann dúinn ár ndán a cheistniú,

   Ní h-ann dúinn ach reo agus leá,

   Reo agus leá go buan

   Ní chuirtear riamh an rua ina gheal.

3. BEDOUIN / BEDOUIN

   

   

   ENGGLE

   The sod is hard with frost at dawn,
   Hunkered cattle chew the cud, steam above them,
   Twin mountains stand – the Géarán  and the Géarán’s  Point
   (the names are not important, nor the words, but what is seen) – 
   Stand swathed in white symmetry, an abstract form
   With angles straight and gentle rising on each flank
   To the zenith of the two peaks, and between
   There sags a narrow ridge, a perfect curve;
   Saddle bow on the hard horse of the world;
   Or a recurve bow in Olympian hero’s grip – 
   He hits the heart, the bulls-eye every time;
   Or Cupid’s bow atop luxuriant lips
   Which make us itch to match them to our own.

    

   But no, those images are all wide of the mark,
   For now the mind throws up a simple shape
   Full of mystery and standing in the lee
   Of a crescent dune deep in the desert heart,
   High angles from each side to each pole-tip
    – two of them – and the canvas looping down
   A breathless arc between, the night had come
   And next the solitary tent there winked
   A small fire’s boldness in orange and gold.
   It has burned clear through my mind to the far side,
   How I saw it through thin purple air
   At hour of star-unfolding, clear
   From the window of a cruising jumbo jet,
   Craning my neck forward to look back,
   Wishing I need never lose the sight,
   But the angle narrowed, perspective became lost
   And now maybe it was just a winking fire.

   Translated by Simon Ó Faoláin

   Tá an fód cruaidh le sioc ag lóchtaint gréine,
   –Beithígh ina staic ag cogaint, gal lasnairde – 
   Seasann na hardchnoic cúplacha, an Géarán is a Phointe,
   (níl na hainmeacha tábhachtach, ná fiú na focail, ach an rud a fheictear)
   Fillte i mbrat geal bán, siméadrach, teibíocht as cloigeann Ghréagach
   Le huillinneacha caoine rialta ag éirí ar an dá thaobh
   Go dtí dígeann an dá bhuaice agus crochta idir
   An dá rinn siúd, an drom tanaí ina chuar foirfe:
   Corrán diallaite ar chapall cruaidh na cruinne;
   Nó bogha athchuartha i ngreim ag laoch Oilimpeach
   A bhuaileann súil na sprice le gach iarracht;
   Nó bogha Chiúpid os cionn bharra beola méithe
   A chuireann tochas ionainn chun a póige.

    

   Ach ní hea, ní hiad, táid na samhail uilig siúd dulta ar fóraíl,
   Mar anois is cuimhin liom crot maorga símplí lán mistéire
   Ina sheasamh i gcúl dumha gainimh i lár an Sahára,
   Uillinneacha arda ar dhá thaobh suas go binn cuaillí
   – dhá cheann – is an anairt gheal ag lúbadh síos i mbogha aoibheann
   Eatarthu, an oíche tagaithe agus taobh an phubaill aonair
   Bhí crógacht tine óir is oráiste ag sméideadh.
   Atá sé dóite fós im’ chuimhne, ólta inti siar síos,
   Mar a bhfaca é trén aer scáinte corcra in am oscailt réalta
   Ón 747, ag scrogaireacht muiníl chun cinn ag féachaint
   Siar d’fhonn nach dtréigfeadh an radharc mo shúile choíche,
   Ach do ghéaraigh ar an uilinn gur éirigh peirspictíocht dodhéanta
   Is anois, b’fhéidir nach raibh ann riamh ach sméideadh tine.

4. PERMANENT ECLIPSE / BUANÉICLIPS

   

   

   ENGGLE

   As it is a fact that the bones

   Of the ancestors from

   the womb of Newgrange

   Are some time since evicted

   To archive boxes

   In the museum’s bowels,

    

   And a fact also that

   Sun shines not on them here

   Any day of the year,

   Not even at solstice so that

   The eternal circuit should remain intact,

    

   This winter will last forever.

   Translated by Simon Ó Faoláin

   Ós rud é go bhfuil cnámha

   Na sinsear ó bhroinn Bhrú Aonghusa

   Le tamall díshealbhaithe

   Go boscaí cartlainne

   I bputóga na h-iarsmalainne,

    

   Agus ós rud é fós

   Nach ngealann grian orthu

   Anseo aon lá den mbliain,

   Fiú ag grianstad chun go leanfadh

   An timthriall síoraí gan bhriseadh,

    

   Mairfidh an geimhreadh seo go deo.

5. THE LAMENT FOR HENRYK PIOTROWSKI / CAOINEADH HENRYK PIOTROWSKI

   

   

   ENGGLE

   Comrade from the east

   I mourn your downfall,

   you might have been me

   on a different road,

   I also was goaded

   by the sting of madness

   to make a dash

   for the door and to

   take off down the road,

   to turn my back

   on all I had planned,

   on family, on love,

   on friends, on homeland,

   all things familiar,

   on hope itself

    

   When – in spite of

   all good fortune,

   flights of fancy,

   of transformation –

   I felt my life

   was a zero sum

   of pointlessness, aimlessness,

   driven by darkness,

   blindness, bereft

   of understanding,

   such that

   my out of control

   world was in a downward spin,

   such that I felt

   I had been abandoned,                 

   and every tether

   on my body and soul

   tightened beyond release.

    

   Comrade from the east

   I understand your downfall.

    

   For what good to you

   is any compassion

   which your dead ear

   may not hear

   nor your living ear

   have understood?

   The world observed you

   for a long time

   keenly,

   with an eagle’s cold eye,

   evaluation is finished

   by the market,

   no subtle author

   created the metaphor

   that dropped your body

   on a garbage tip,

    

   but comrade from the east

   I pity your downfall.

    

   I sing for those

   with no wealth to share,

   I sing for those

   who earn no praise,

   I sing for those

   with no name, nor place to stay

   I sing for those

   whom god has turned away,

   I sing for those

   with a fence in the mind

   closing them off

   from home and kind,

   I sing for those

   who condemn themselves

   to endless digging

   within themselves,

   I sing for those

   for whom slant, skewed,

   perverted is the course

   that is plotted

   through life, from the embrace

   of a mother’s  arms

   to the embrace

   of those iron jaws.

    

   Comrade from the east

   I grieve for your downfall.

   Translated by Paddy Bushe

   A bhráthair ón oirthear

   is trua liom d'oidhe,

   ba thusa mise

   ar chonair eile,

   nár mhinic 'bhíos prioctha

   ag meach na buile

   chun ruathair a thabhairt

   fén ndoras is siúil

   an bóthar amach,

   is droim a thabhairt

   le gach a bheartaíos,

   le clann, le grá,

   le cairde, tír,

   le gach a d'aithníos,

   fiú an dóchas

    

   Nuair – ainneoin

   an uile aisce,

   áilleacht, eitilt,

   síor-chlaochlú –

   bhraitheas nach fiú

   faic mo bheo

   gan chiall, gan sprioc,

   tiománta ag duibhe,

   ag daille, ag easpa

   tuisceana,

   ag slí a bhraitheas

   mo shaol 'bheith curtha

   ar fán iomlán,

   ag slí a bhraitheas

   gur teipeadh orm,

   is ag gach urchall

   coirp is samhlaíocht'

   gan dul a ghearradh.

    

   A bhráthair ón oirthear,

   tuigim d'oidhe.

    

   Nó cad is fiú

   aon taise duitse

   nach féidir dod'

   chluas mharbh a chloisint,

   's nár thig dod'

   chluas bheo a thuiscint?

   D'fhair an saol ort

   thar tréimhse fhada

   le súil ghéar,

   fuarchúis fiolair,

   tá breithiúnas tugtha

   ag an margadh,

   ba ró-shoiléir

   meafar an údair

   a d'fhág do chorp

   i gcarn bruscar,

    

   ach a bhráthair ón oirthear,

   is trua liom d'oidhe.

    

   Canaim dóibhsan

   gan rath le bronnadh,

   Canaim dóibhsan

   nach fiú a moladh,

   Canaim dóibhsan

   gan chlú, gan leaba,

   Canaim dóibhsan

   nach geal le dia,

   Canaim dóibhsan

   le claí 'na n-aigne

   nach ligfidh dóibh

   dul abhaile,

   Canaim dóibhsan

   féin-damnaithe

   ag an iomarca

   d'fhéin-aithne,

   Canaim dóibhsan

   gur cam, gur claon,

   gur saofa a gcúrsa

   tarraingthe

   trén saol, ó bharróg

   bhaclainn máthar

   go barróg idir

   gialla cruacha.

    

   A bhráthair ón oirthear,

   is trua liomsa d'oidhe.

6. WILDERNESS / FÁSACH

   

   

   ENGGLE

   For Nuala Ní Dhómhnaill

    

   And in spite everything I have now,

   Especially in spite of the easy life,

   The vision still lives intensely within.

    

   There’s a beehive hut high on Screag

    – Roofed still between earth and sky –

   That would be enough.

    

   Ravens speaks fraternally there,

   A hare runs uphill,

   Golden plovers are incandescent.

    

   I’d have no bean-row at all there

   (It’s common knowledge that beans

   Don't grow on islands, or exposed mountains).

    

   I’d live on fraughans, silverweed roots, chickweed,

   And maybe a bottle of Laphroaig

   Hoarded in a niche in the wall of the hut.

    

   I’d have the odd drop on fine evenings,

   Perched between the door-jambs watching

   The sun set blood-red over Sliabh an Iolair.

    

   Ingrained in the turf-smoke of every sip

   Would be taste of all the bridges I burned,

   And let that be no occasion for remorse.

   Translated by Paddy Bushe

   Do Nuala Ní Dhómhnaill

    

   'Gus in ainneoin gach a bhfuil agam,

   de dheargainneoin saol na míne,

   Tá an aisling thréan im' intinn.

    

   Tá clochán in airde ar chliathán na Screige

   – Díon fós ina sheasamh idir spéir agus talamh –

   a dhéanfadh cúis.

    

   Labhraíonn an fiach go bráthardha ann,

   ritheann giorria i gcoinne fána,

   Dónn an fheadóg bhuí mar ghríos.

    

   Ní bheadh iomairí pónairí agam ann,

   (Tá's ag madraí an bhaile nach bhfásann

   pónairí ar oileán ná ar shliabh gan fothain),

    

   Mhairfinn ar fhraocháin, rútaí brioscláin, fuilig,

   Agus b'fhéidir buidéal Laphroaig

   i dtaisce in almóir an chlocháin.

    

   Bheadh braon agam tráthnóntaí breátha,

   Suite idir ursain an dorais ag féachaint

   ar ghrian na fola thar Shliabh an Iolair.

    

   Do-scartha ó dheatach na móna sa bholgam

   bheadh blas na ndroichead dóite uilig,

   Is ná chuirfeadh san aon mhairg orm.

7. IMBOLC / IMBOLC

   

   

   ENGGLE

   I woke far and deep into the dark

   Solemnities of winter’s last night.

   Two things woke me: a need to piss

   And, beyond that, the echoing

   Sound of a vixen under a dog fox

   On the craggy slope as they mated.

    

   Bodily business behind me,

   I listened to the screeching,

   Plain desire plainly articulated.

   Ears filled by a vixen under a dog,

   I stood naked under the attic window

   With a feral pang through my gut.

    

   A proclamation from Cnoc a’ Chairn: [2]

   The deepest dark of winter has gone.

    

   [1] title Imbolc is the pagan Gaelic festival marking the beginning of Spring. Christianized as Lá le Bríde, Saint Brigit's 

   [2] Cnoc a' Chairn is the name of the mountain above the West Kerry town of An Daingean (Dingle).

   Translated by Paddy Bushe

   Do dhúisigh mé i gcoim dubhoíche

   Diamhar deireanach an geimhridh,

   Dhá cúis a bhí leis; gá mo scaoileadh

   ’Gus thíos ar san cluinsint ar thorann

   Sionnaigh bhaineann fé shionnach fireann

   Ar fhothar sléibhe ag bualadh craicinn.

    

   Cúram coirpiúil curtha díom,

   D’éisteas leis an screadarnaíl,

   Léiriú lom gach uile mhian.

   Cluas le soith fé mheáchain gadhair,

   Nochtaithe fén bhfuinneog áiléir

   Freang fhiantais im’ ionathar.

    

   Craobhscaoileadh beo ó Chnoc a’ Chairn:

   Dubhluachra na bliana imithe tharainn.

8. HORIZONS / LÉASLÍNTE

   

   

   ENGGLE

   For Zoë

    

   The canary had been dead as a dodo this past while,
   But somehow, as we groped around in terror in the darkness,
   Our hands chanced upon the airlock’s wheel
   And turned it.

    

   When our heads broke the surface luck was with us: 
   A white plastic nut swam among the wreckage
   And bloomed – yellow like a water lily – 
   Into a life raft.

    

   Huge bubbles issue from the depths
   With the collapse of each bulkhead:
   Pay it no mind – we are no longer in that place – 
   But raise your head.

    

   Though our provisions will not last long
   And who knows what weather front approaches,
   Are these waves not beautiful,
   This sky?

   Translated by Simon Ó Faoláin

   Do Zoë

    

   Bhí an canary chomh marbh le hArt le tamall,
   Ach ar cuma éigin agus sinn ag glíomáil timpeall
   Fé sceon sa dorchadas, d’aimsigh ár lámha roth an aerghlas
   Is chas

    

   Nuair a bhris ár gcinn barr farraige bhí an t-ádh linn:
   Cnó bán pleastach ar snámh i measc na raice,
   Gur bhláthaigh – buí mar dhuilleog báite – 
   Ina rafta tarrthála

    

   Brúchtann ollbholgáin aníos
   Le cliseadh gach bulcaide.
   Ná bac leis – ní hann dúinn san áit sin níos mó – 
   Ach tóg do cheann

    

   Cé nach fada a mhairfidh ár stór bídh
   Agus n’fheadar cén aimsir atá chughainn,
   Nach álainn iad na tonnta seo,
   An spéir?

9. CEASEFIRE / SOS COGAIDH

   

   

   ENGGLE

   Come down, dismount your piebald pony,
   Leave cloud of doubt and halo of fury,
   And I’ll lay aside prejudice’s helmet.
   
   Do you know me now, dark glowering man,
   Or do we all look much the same in your eyes?
   On the edge of Kilmallock you pulled a knife.
   
   And although the point was turned on me,
   It was as though you could not see,
   It was as though you fought with shadows.
   
   And although your hand controlled the hilt,
   I felt like a surgeon observing a reflex,
   For the knife was your answer to all your ills.
   
   I never wish to deny free will,
   But who can deny conditioning
   Instils salivation in dogs and men?
   
   Yet might both of us pull out of Pavlov’s disease
   And see the face behind the mask,
   No cloud or halo, no helmet or knife?

   Translated by Simon Ó Faoláin

   Léim anuas ded’ chapaillín spágach piebald,
   tar i leith gan néall buille ná luan amhrais id’ thimpeall
   agus bainfeadsa clogad mo chlaontachta díom.
   
   Nach cuimhin leat mé, a fhir theann dhuibh,
   nó an bhfuil an sciamh chéanna orainn uilig id’ shúilibh?
   Ar imeall Chill Mocheallóg tharraingis scian orm.
   
   Is cé gur ormsa a bhí do bhior dírithe
   bhí sé ar nós nár fhaca tú éinne,
   bhí sé ar nós gur throidis le scátha.
   
   Is cé gur agatsa ‘bhí greim ar an gcos,
   do bhraitheas mar lia ag faire frithluail,
   toisc scian do leigheas ar gach aicíd dod’ chás.
   
   Níl fonn orm riamh toil dheona a cheilt
   ach ní féidir linn cumhacht seanthaithí a shéanadh,
   ‘cuireann uisce le fiacla con agus duine.
   
   ‘Gus an gcloífidh an bheirt againn galar seo Pavlov,
   chun go gcífear an duine taobh thiar den aghaidh fidil
   gan néall, gan luan, gan clogad ná scian?

10. UNDERWATER CONTACT / TEAGMHÁIL FOTHOINN

    

    

    ENGGLE

    For Ruaidhrí

     

    It was not the vision’s ultrasound
    That bore your being home to me,
    But deep blind sonar of the ear,
    The liquid beat of a tiny heart
    Exactly like a swishing prop,
    And I am a diver once again
    Sensing mysterious vessels glide
    Upon the surface overhead.
    
    With fate’s currents all disturbed now
    An eddy of life swells deep below,
    Rise, my heart, but steady, slow,
    Avoiding danger of the bends
    Ascend the slender bubble-thread
    Through silver-sequinned clouds of fish.

    Translated by Simon Ó Faoláin

    Do Ruaidhrí

     

    Ní hé ultrasound na súl
    A chuir do réaltacht ina luí go fíor,
    Ach sonar doimhin dall na gcluas;
    Buille mear croí big trén leacht,
    Díreach cosúil le fuaim an prop.
    Is táim aríst im’ thumadóir
    Ag braistint árthaigh diamhaire
    Ag tormáil thar mo cheann go hard.
    
    Le feachtaí na cinniúna suaite,
    Cúlsruth beatha thíos ag borradh,
    Éirigh a chroí, go sochma réidh,
    Ag seachaint tinnis díchomhbhrú,
    Lean corda caol bolgáin go barr
    Tré scamall álainn airgead éisc.

11. BACK WEST / THIAR

    

    

    ENGGLE

    For Dómhnal

     

    This corner of the townland
    Where the fields are not neat and rectangular
    With parallel boundaries,
    But small and irregular, speckled with boulders,
    Like a cluster of cancer cells in healthy tissue
    Or the absolute opposite.
    
    Above, the zig-zag course of the green track
    Back and forth across the mountain’s screen
    Shows a pulse, a still-beating heart,
    Or perhaps I am mistaken.
    
    No boat nor punt stirs the harbour below,
    Be there shoaling or – most often – nothing.
    It is not the water only which is like a sheet,
    For a sheet lies on this scene’s every part.
    
    Perhaps the riddle could be untied,
    the spell broken,
    Had we the correct words
    Or knowledge of the combination,
    Like the chrome keyboards
    On the gateposts of the empty houses,
    
    But there is a hollow silence within
    and silence has slipped the leash.

    Translated by Simon Ó Faoláin

    Do Dhómhnal

     

    An chúinne seo den bhaile fearainn
    Mar nach bhfuil na páirceanna néata, dronuilleogach
    Le clathacha comhthreomhara,
    Ach iad beag neamhrialta, breac le boirneoga,
    Ar nós chnuas de chealla ailse i bhfíochán sláintiúil,
    Nó a mhalairt iomlán de scéal.
    
    In airde, teaspánann rian fiarlán an bhóithrín ghlais
    Sall is anall ar scáileán an chnoic
    Go bhfuil cuisle inti, croí ag bualadh fós,
    Nó tá dul amú orm.
    
    Ní chorraíonn bád ná coit sa chuan thíos,
    Bíodh ráthaíocht nó – is minice – faic.
    Ní hé an t-uisce amháin áta ina léinseach,
    Nó tá léinseach ’na luí ar na’ haon ghné den mhír.
    
    B’fhéidir go bhféadfaí an rún seo a fhuascailt,
    An ortha a bhriseadh,
    dá mbeadh na focail cuí ann
    Agus fios ar ord cheart na n-uimhir,
    Cosúil leis na méarchláir chróime
    Ar chuaillí gheataí na tithe folamha,
    
    Ach tá tost toll laistigh
    agus tost amugh.