Poems from Colin Ryan

Lámhbhró

Agus thagadh an áit sin
chugat aniar i mbrionglóid
i bhfad i ndiaidh a tréigthe:
na páirceanna arda
ag rith anuas chun réisc
na seomraí arda dorcha
beo le corraí na marbh
is meáchan úd na bró
le mothú fós a fuarthas
thiar i ngort an bhaile:
cine a déanta séidte
ag anfa chrua a gcáite
an bhró ar lár
na síolta meilte

Hand-mill

And that place used to return to you in dream long after it was left: the high paddocks sweeping down to swampland, the high dark rooms alive with the stirring of the dead, and the felt weight of the quern that was found in the home paddock: its makers scattered by a hard winnowing gale, the quern let fall, the seed ground up.

Dáiríreacht

Seo an léiriú deireanach
a dúirt sé linn
ag cur air éide ríoga
í righin le salachar
bréan le sean-allas:
é féin ag éirí amach
ar chláracha an stáitse
a lámha ar lorg
shíoda mín a ríochta
is na línte ídithe
i gcuasáin a chloiginn:
síneadh chuige an nimh
a shíntear chun na ríthe
go bhfuair sé bás
le brón is bualadh bos
é curtha amuigh
(mar bíonn an bás dáiríre

In earnest

This, he told us, was the last performance, as he put on royal raiment that was stiff with dirt, stinking of old sweat, and stepped out on the boards, his hand seeking the smooth silk of his kingdom, his lines exhausted in the chambers of his skull. He was handed the poison that kings are given and died with grief and applause, being buried outside where actors are interred (for death is something real).

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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