Aistear
Ghabh sé trí na sráideanna
istoíche
mar ghadaí nó teachtaire
an ghealach ina lóchrann
na réaltaí
á n-ídiú féin
ar maidin
bhí na sléibhte ann
gan fáilte gan doicheall
gaoth scallta lastall díobh
gaineamhlach go bun na spéire
lig sé don ghaineamh é a bhá
lig sé chuige an t-íonú
Journey
He passed through the streets at night like a thief or a messenger, the moon a lantern, the stars consuming themselves. In the morning the mountains were there, neither welcoming nor hostile, a scorching wind beyond them, desert to the edge. He let the sand drown him, he let himself be purified.
Leabhair
Dornán leabhar
a fágadh sna fothracha
(fisic is cóiriú bláthanna)
faoi shúil na gréine tnáite
a raibh filíocht inti fós
in intinn na cruinne
is na filí féin
dulta i ndearmad
(mar is cuí)
le gliogar binn a línte
Books
A handful of books were left in the ruins (physics, flower arrangement), under the eye of the exhausted sun that still, in the mind of the universe, had poetry in it. The poets themselves forgotten (as is proper), with the jingle of their lines.
Fear de do mhuintir
An aicíd sna scamhóga aige
ón mianadóireacht
é ag cur aistear air féin
ó lá go chéile
na héin in airde san aer
ag mealladh na súl
ón gcré
an mianach
ídithe
A man of your blood
Sickness in his lungs from mining, going the long way from day to day, the birds high in the sky, coaxing the eye from earth, with the mine exhausted.
I ngloine
An ghrian gafa
i ngloine uisce
cuileog
i mbéal
fuinneoige
na focail
ina stad
san aer
In a glass
The sun captured in a glass of water. A fly on the window’s face. The words paused in air.
Melbourne-based Colin Ryan’s poetry collection Corraí na Nathrach is available from Coiscéim the Dubli-based Irish-language publisher.
Tinteán 