Dánta le Colin Ryan

Brionglóid

Bhí an chearc uisce anseo, an foitheach
is an corp ar a shuaimhneas ar snámh
ag breathnú suas ar áilleacht éigin
a lámh in airde aige
d’fhonn toradh a stoitheadh
i ngéaga an aeir:

ag imeacht dó le sruth d’fhás bláth ina lámh
a ndearnadh éan de
(níor aithin mé é, bheadh orm a ainm a lorg)
é ag éirí ar eitleog
ar thóir rud éigin lastall den suan

The waterhen was here, the grebe, and the corpse floating at its ease, looking up at loveliness, its hand raised to pluck fruit in branches of air; as he drifted away a flower grew in his hand and became a bird (I didn’t recognise it, I’d need to find out its name) which rose in flight, seeking something which lay beyond sleep.

Scátháin

Tá lé agam le scátháin
le beatha scoite na scáileanna
in intinn na gloine

a mhalairt de chomharthaí
ina mhalairt de sheomra
nach liom ná leat é

is rudaí á ndéanamh nach eol duit
taobh thiar den seomra úd
bású nó saolú

i gciúnas a mbrisfeadh cloch é

I have a leaning towards mirrors, sequestered life of reflections in the mind of the glass; other gestures in another room not mine or yours; and behind that room things happening unknown to you (dying or giving birth) in quietness which a stone would break.

Lonnaitheoir

Sheasadh sé sa doras um thráthnóna
a shúile sáite sna réaltaí
ag géilleadh don dúlasair

é slán ón nga anois
a leagfadh san oíche thú

mar bhí na treibheanna fiáine
brúite síos i gcré
(ba dhána an lámh a rinne é)

is gan iontu anois ach cogar um mheán oíche
a bhuairfeadh an croí

He used to stand at the door at evening, his eyes fixed on the stars, delivered up to their blaze, safe now from the spear that would fell you at night, for the savage tribes had been driven down into earth (you needed a strong hand to do it) and were nothing now but a whisper at midnight to trouble the heart.

Imithe

Thug sí an dia abhaile léi
rud ar shnoigh lámh dhaonna é
nó lámh dé eile
gur thóg sí sa ghairdín é:

mar bhí na teampaill leagtha
na colúin scaipthe san fhéar
is d’adhair sí ansin é
nó go ndúirt an dia i mbrionglóid
go raibh sé imithe

cé gur fhág sé a cholainn álainn aici
a lámha deilbhithe

She brought the god home with her, carved by human hand or by another god, and erected him in the garden, for the temples were overthrown, the columns scattered in grass; and she worshipped him there until he said in a dream that he had departed, though he left her his beautiful body, his shaped hands.

Colin is a regular contributor to Tinteán. He has published fiction, poetry and journalism in Irish. Cló lar-Chonnacht, the Irish language publishing house, has just brought out a collection of short stories in the Irish language by by Colin,  a very rare phenomenon in Australia.