Mórshaothar
Gan dua a rinne sé é:
an phortráid a ghoid
ó chiúnas neamhchúiseach
na dánlainne
(na línte míne, na súile beo
an gáire fann débhríoch)
í ceilte faoina chóta
ar an solas a thit
ina mhaidhm ó na flaithis:
lean sí uirthi á cheistiú
nó gur mhúch sé
a guth i seanbhosca
is na coiscéimeanna
ag druidim lena dhoras
an fuadach séanta
an cleamhnas déanta
Masterpiece
He did it easily: stealing the portrait from the indifferent stillness of the museum (the delicate lines, the living eyes, the faint ambiguous smile), hidden under his coat from the light that fell in a torrent from heaven; she kept interrogating him until he quenched her voice in an old box, as the footsteps approached his door, with the abduction denied, the betrothal complete.
Banfháidh
Dúirt sí linn
go raibh sí ag éalú
ón bhfarraige: ón mórtas
ó chíocras na toinne
ón rud a bháfadh ríochtaí:
ach bhí na pearóidí rósaile
ag preabarnach fós inár n-aigne
na laethanta ag siúl
go tirim ar dhroim a chéile
is an teas ina cheo
idir spéir agus talamh
(cé gur chualamar an torann
ag borradh go bodhar
i bhfad i gcéin)
agus féach anois
na tonnta chugainn aniar
ina neart ina gcúr
ag breith leo a raibh i dtaisce
ag bá ár mbuartha
Prophetess
She told us she was was fleeing the sea: the roughness, the waves’ hunger, the drowning of kingdoms. But the rosellas still flickered in our minds, day drily followed day, with a mist of heat btween sky and earth (though we heard the rumble growing faintly far away); and see now the waves approachng, power and foam, taking all that was stored, drowning our grief.
Colin is a regular contributor to Tinteán and issues his own Irish language online newsletter An Lúibín. Mura mian leat An Lúibín a fháil, cuir teachtaireacht dá réir chun rianach@optusnet.com.au
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