Ar scor
Ní rachaidh mé ar an stáitse arís
a dúirt sí linn ag cuimhneamh
fós ar an mbualadh bos
ar an gcur i gcéill a sceitheann fírinne:
í ag cúlú uainn go mánla
is a masc rósheodach cráite
os ár gcomhair amach go fóill
is an gúna maisithe ina seasamh
leis féin go fóill ag caomhnú
chuimhne na ngothaí
sáruaisle nó seafóideacha
Retired
I won’t go on the stage again, she told us, remembering the applause, the pretence that utters truth. She retreated gently, her tormented mask, all jewels, still before us, and the decorated gown standing by itself, preserving the memory of gestures, senseless or splendidly noble.
Fionnachtain
Ar bhordáil dóibh chonaic siad rompu
an cósta is na bristeacha fada.
Nárbh é sin an chríoch a gealladh dóibh
is stair úrnua le déanamh? ach tháinig
an oíche orthu anoir trí na scriútaí
ag ceilt a gcinniúna orthu
is gan ann ar maidin ach scáileanna reatha
faoi chneas na mara is snámhraic
ó thír a ndóchais
óna dtearmann báite
Discovery
When they tacked they saw before them the coast and the long breakers. Wasn’t that their destined land where a new history would be made? But night overtook them from the east through the shrouds, hiding their destiny from them, with nothing there at morning but running shadows under the skin of the sea and sea-wrack from the country of their hope, from their drowned refuge.
Cuileog
D’fhógraíomar tráth
in ómós na hóige fiáine
go siúlfaimis paróistí aineoil
is go bhfillfimis inár bhfáithe:
ach d’fhanamar sa bhaile
cois fuinneoige
an ghloine fós inár nglac againn
is leabhair ar fiar inár dtimpeall:
an chuileog fheola
ag dordán idir ballaí
ag cur foighne sa bhás
go bhfágfadh an t-am
an deireadh orainn.
A Fly
Once we announced, to honour reckless youth, that we would travel strange parishes and return as prophets; but we stayed at home by the window, a glass still in our hand and books aslant around us, with the blow-fly humming between walls, pacifying death till time should overtake us.
Gruagach
Tar éis na hoiliúna go léir
bhí fios a bhéas aige
é deas ar sceanra a imirt
ar fheoil an lae
é ag teacht ó thóin an chró
is an oíche fós ina chóta
iarsmaí creiche ina phócaí
lámh cailín nó ceann madra:
leagadh sé crúb ar chíoch
a mháthar ag beannú di
is bheannaíodh go síodúil
do ghlaine na maidine
Ogre
After so much education he knew how to behave; he was deft with the knives on the meat of the day, and would emerge from his hovel still bearing the night in his coat, and in his pockets the remnants of plunder, a girl’s hand or head of a dog. He used to lay his hand on his mother’s breast when greeting her, he used to suavely greet the morning’s purity.
Tinteán 