Simon Ó Faoláin

Translated by Simon Ó Faoláin

1. 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.

2. 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.

3. 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?

4. 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?

5. 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.

6. 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.