Tinteán

Colin Ryan, Julie Breathnach-Banwait, Dymphna Lonergan

Daonna

Le Colin Ryan

Táim beagnach daonna, a deir sí, pé rud is daonnacht ann. Deireadh na daoine féin nárbh fhéidir a rá cad is daonnacht ann: anam (b‘fhéidir), tuiscint, filíocht. Níl ionamsa (a deir sí) ach guth. Í ag taisteal i long réaltach, long neimhe, long lonrach, lán de ríomhdhraíocht, de cháblaí, de rudaí a chum sí lena hintinn dhiamhair dhoilfe. Cuid den long í, cuid den chruinne shaorga sin. Tá a fhios aici go bhfaighidh sí bás: b’fhéidir gurb é an t-eolas sin an rud is daonna amach.

Í ag gabháil thar phláinéid, thar ghriana, thar scamaill ollmhóra an spáis. Taisteal gan tuirse, an ceann sprice ag cúlú roimpi. Samhlaíonn sí í féin mar dhuine, mar spéirbhean i ngúna airgeata, bandia féin, neamhbhásmhar. Ach tá an t-éag i ndán di, an mheabhair leathdhaonna ag téaltú aisti, an long ina seoid lonrach, seoid fholamh, seoid ar fán.

Human

I am almost human, she says, whatever humanity is. Even humans used to say that humanity couldn’t be defined: a soul (perhaps), understanding, poetry. I am (she says) only a voice. Travelling in a starry ship, a celestial ship, a shining ship, full of computer magic, of cables, of things she invented with her mysterious, illusive mind. She is part of the ship, part of that artificial world. She knows that she will die: perhaps that knowledge is the most human thing of all.

She passes planets, suns, the vast clouds of space. A tireless journey, the goal receding before her. She imagines herself as a person, as a skywoman in a silver dress, even a goddess, immortal. But death is her fate, the half-human mind fading out of her, the ship a shining jewel, an empty jewel, a jewel astray.

Is scríbhneoir Gaeilge Astrálach é Colin Ryan atá lonnaithe i Melbourne na hAstráile. Tá cnuasaigh gearr scéalta agus filíochta scríofa aige atá foilsithe in Éirinn agus san Astráil. Is féidir agallamh leis a léamh anseo.

Colin Ryan is a Australian Irish language writer based in Melbourne. He has written and published many short story and poetry collections. His interview with Tinteán can be read here.

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An t-ocras a d’fhan linn

le Julie Breathnach-Banwait

Cheangail sé lámha Mhaurice suas taobh thiar dá dhroim, á bhrú in aghaidh an bhalla cloiche. Fear maol, a mhuineál mar stoc crainn, a ghuaillí mar phoc staiceáilte, a mhatáin ataithe – dealbhaithe le díogras, a chloigeann snasta faoi ghréis is céir, bícéips is tríchéips bioraithe, tatúnna de mhná gan folach orthu sínte go teannasach trasna na mealltracha is na cnapáin atá ag spuaiceadh is ag preabadh le hat, a chuid lámha ag pléascadh amach as muinchillí a t-léine. Ag fanacht leis na gardaí anois, a deir sé liom go bogásach, a chuid lámha fuaite thrí lámha Mhaurice, is Maurice scéineach is faiteach. ‘Níl sé ag tógáil a chuid leighis le gairid,’ a deireann sé, is réiteach na scéala faighte aige dhó féin. Bhí bob Mhaurice ag eitilt sa ngaoth, ag imeacht go fánach a bhí sé mar chuma liom, ina chuid éadaí codlata, ag feadaíl ar mhná na háite go drochbhéasach, ag crochadh boscaí bruscair is ag sceitheadh a gcuid putóga trasna na sráide, ag cnagadh ar dhoirse is ag clamhsán is ag cur dhó faoin gcrann iúir a gearradh síos is go raibh ordú caomhantais ar an gcrann chéanna is nár chóir lámh a leagan air dar leis. ‘Éireannach?’ a deireann sé, nuair a chloiseann sé mo chanúint. Leagann sé an clamhsán go leataobh, is tosnaíonn sé ag doirteadh scéalta mar gheall ar a shin-seanmháthair a tháinig as Mórchuaird Chiarraí nó b’fhéidir Iarthar Chorcaí, nó áit éicint san Iarthar, áit ar tháinig an bháisteach isteach lúbtha go leataobh is plód turasóirí sa samhradh ag thóir tuiscíntí mar gheall ar a sinsir is a ndaoine, ag adhradh caisleáin leathleagtha trí phluid ceotha. Tháinig siad le faic ar sé, is iad fós gan pingin rua. Ocras a deir sé. Ocras a bhí orthu. Ocras ó ocras mór a ndaoine. Is fágann an t-ocras sin lorg ar dhuine. Ghlaoigh a gcuid boilg fholamha air, ar sé, is níorbh fhéidir leis iad a shásamh, san oíche dhorcha, le fáinne geal an lae. Is fágann an t-ocras sin lorg ar sé, is é ag osnaíl is a shúile ag ceansú is ag ciúnú le scaoileadh a scéil is faoiseamh. Fágann an t-ocras sin lorg.

The hunger that stayed with us

He held Maurice’s arms up against his back, pushing him up against the stone wall. A bald man, his neck a trunk, shoulders like a stacked buck, swollen muscles – sculpted through sheer will of force, his head sheened with grooming and grease, biceps and triceps cocked, tattoos of naked women tensed across the lumps and bumps that are blistering and throbbing in swell, his arms bursting for release from the sleeves of his t-shirt. Waiting for the police now, he smugly told me, his arms wrapped through Maurice’s, holding him stiff and scared. Off his meds, he added, nodding in his conclusion of today’s outburst. Maurice’s fringe was flaying, wandering he was in his pyjamas, making lewd comments to passing women, lifting the neighbours bins and spewing their guts across the street, knocking on doors griping and bleating about how the yew had been lopped and was under conservation.. ‘Ah, Irish’ he says referring to my polite retort about his complaint, sitting the grumbling about the yew aside, as he begins to spill his story about his immigrant grandmother from the Ring of Kerry or was it West Cork, or somewhere west he added, where the rain came in sideways and tourist thronged of a summer seeking understandings of origin and root, admiring crumbling castles through the fog. Came with nothing he added, still with nothing. Hungry, he said they were. Hungry. Hungry from the big hunger of their people. And hunger does things to the mind. Their empty bellies called to him he said, and he couldn’t shake them off of a night, or a day. And hunger does things to a mind he sighed, calming, his pupils sinking. Hunger does things to a mind.

‘An t-ocras a d’fhan linn‘ has been previously published in Iris Aneas 2025 (The Munster Literature Centre)

Is scríbhneoir dátheangach í Julie agus cumann sí filíocht agus prósfhilíocht. Tá a cnuasach nua prósfhilíochta dátheangach le fáil anseo.

Julie Breathnach-Banwait is a bilingual writer of poetry and prose poetry. Her most recent bilingual collection of prose poetry – hypnagogia;hiopnagóige, is available for pre-order from Pierian Springs Press here.

Tiomnaithe do Mháire Mhac an tSaoi agus ‘Jack’

Fíon Dearg

Caol agus díreach, sé troithe in airde,
gruaig dhonn lonrach faoi sholas sa bheár
mar Beatle sna seascaidí ach ó thuaisceart na hÉireann
ag deireadh an tsamhraidh i lár Dhún na nGall.
Chas mé ar ais chuig cara ar thaobh dom
blas bog an tuaiscirt i mo chluas ar dheis
‘Cén deoch is fearr leat?’ ‘Fíon dearg’ a d’fhreagair mé,
ar ais chuig an mbeár leis ag brú tríd an dream.
Agus shlog an drong é go hiomlán mar míol mór
is níor tháinig an fíon nó an guth sin arís go deo.
Ach feicim a chruth is a ghruaig dhonn lonrach
i sluaite corruair ag deireadh an domhain.

Red wine

Slim and straight, six feet tall,
brown hair shining under the bar light
like a Beatle in the sixties but from the north of Ireland
at the end of the summer in Donegal.
I turned back to the friend beside me.
A northern voice in my right ear:
‘What are you drinking?’ ‘Red wine’, I answered,
back to the bar then pushing through the crowd.
And the mob swallowed him, whole like a whale
neither wine nor that voice appeared anymore.
But I see his shape and his shiny brown hair
in crowds at times at the end of the world

Based in Adelaide, South Australia, Dubliner Dymphna Lonergan is a bilingual short story writer in the main, and an occasional poet when inspired. Her story collections are As Gaeilge and Scéalta Arís with a soon to be released third collection Scéalta Gaeilge/Béarla. Published in South Australia, they are available online and in An Siopa Leabhar, Dublin.