A Theanga Seo Leath-Liom
Le Seán Ó Ríordáin
Cé cheangail ceangal eadrainn,
A theanga seo leath-liom?
Muran lán-liom tú cén tairbhe
Bheith easnamhach id bhun?
Tá teanga eile in aice leat
Is deir sí linn ‘Bí liom,’
Do ráinig duinn bheith eadraibh,
Is is deighilte sinn ó shin.
Ní mór duinn dul in aice leat
Go sloigfí sinn ionat
Nó goidfear uainn do thearmann,
Is goidfear uaitse sinn.
Ní mheileann riamh leath-aigne,
Caitheann dul ionat;
Cé nach bog féd chuid a bhraithim tú,
A theanga seo leath-liom.
O Language Half Mine
Who tied this bond between us
O language half mine?
If you won’t fully have me, what’s the use?
I’m not much good at giving line.
There’s another one after me.
She says ‘You’re mine.’
I’m caught between the pair of you
and am torn in two.
I need to be always around you,
taken solely by you
or else I’ll be robbed of your refuge
and robbed of myself.
A half a mind never grinds properly.
I’ll have to give in to you totally
though you’re not generous with your goods,
O language half mine.
Tá an dán ‘A Theanga Seo Leath-Liom,’ tógtha as an leabhar dátheangach ‘Ní Ceadmhach Neamhshuim: Apathy Is Out’ (Bloodaxe Books) le Seán Ó Ríordáin (1916-77) agus aistrithe go béarla ag Greg Delaney.
The above poem by Seán Ó Ríordáin (1916-77) has previously been published in the book ‘Ní Ceadmhach Neamhshuim: Apathy is Out (Bloodaxe Books) and translated by Greg Delaney. The book can be found at https://www.bloodaxebooks.com/ecs/product/apathy-is-out-1244.
Foilsíthe le cead ó Blood Axe Books agus Cló Iar Chonnacht
Published with permission of Blood Axe Books and Cló Iar Chonnacht
Tuaim Chnámhach
Le Art Ó Suilleabháin
Bhí íomlán maith ar líne an mhaidin sin
in abhainn gar do Bhéal Átha Glúinín
agus bhí gliondar orm ag filleadh
ar áras cloiche in Ifreann thuas.
Tháinig mé ar dhraein éigin
ar mo bhealach aonair abhaile
léim ach níor shroich mé ceart
an sprioc thar usice romham
bruach rófhada uaim
a d’fhág mo chos
sa chlábar.
Shuigh mé, tharraing cos
as puiteach greamaitheach
d’ardaigh cnámha bána léi
scanraigh na píosaí mé
ní raibh a fhios agam
céard a bhí ann
uan beag
nó páiste
aníos lean bruscar airgid
pingeacha le leathchróin
taisce do leaid óg ocrach
i bpóca a chuaigh siad
is cibé salachar a bhí leo
luach pionta bainne, bríoscaí
seacláide a choinneodh beo mé
ar feadh lae nó dhó sa choláiste.
Fuair mé sham lá arna mhárach
a dhíol an t-iomlán sin i dTuaim
d’ íoc sé ocht scilleacha dom
d’ól me bainne
d’alp mé bríoscaí
rinne mé argach
ach b’fhéidir
gur dhíol mé
anam páiste leis.
Tuam of the bones
There was a good trout caught that morning
in a river near Ballyglunin
and I was delighted returning
to the stony dormitory upstairs in Hell.
I came to a drain of some sorts
on my way home alone
I jumped but I just didn’t reach
the goal across the water facing me
a bank too far from me
that left one ankle
in mud.
I sat, I pulled a foot
from the sticky muck
white bones rose with it
pieces that frightened me
I didn’t know
what they were
a small lamb
or a child
emerging too, small coins
pennies and a half-a-crown
treasure for a hungry young lad
into my pocket they went
with whatever dirt came with them
the price of a pint of milk and biscuits
chocolate ones that would keep me alive
for a day or two in that boarding school.
I got a sham the next day
who sold the trout in Tuam
he paid me eight shillings
I drank milk
I gulped down biscuits
I made a deal
but maybe
I sold
a child’s soul with it.
‘iomán’ focal ar ‘bhreac’ a mhaireann i nGaeilge Chorr na Móna amháin.
A word for ‘fish’ only used in Corr na Móna.
‘sham’ scoláire lae ó Thuaim a chuaigh abhaile gach tráthnóna.
‘sham’ a day-boy from Tuam who went home each evening.
Tá an dán thuas foilsíthe cheana san Iris Howl New Irish Writing.
The Poem above has previously appeared in Howl New Irish Writing.
Is as Corr na Móna é Art Ó Suilleabháin is a lán dánta foilsíthe aige in irisí éagsúla ar nós Poetry Ireland Review agus Howl New Irish Writing.
Art Ó Suilleabháin is a poet from Corr na Móna, Connemara, Co. Galway, who has published in many journals such as Poetry Ireland Review and Howl New Irish Writing.
Advice
by Michael Boyle
Only when it got dark
did he turn on a light.
Sat by the hearth, listened
to the wet battery radio
high on the window sill.
Got foundered in Scotland
many’s a time you know.
We repaired all them roads.
Sure the back is gone now
from all those drains I dug.
He took a penny between
each finger and thumb
tapped in time on the table
as the radio played
‘The Mountains of Pomeroy.’
Now for yourself young fellah
Stick with that book larning
You wont have any bad wetting
or heavy loads to carry. And
you gets a government pension too.
Gathering Potatoes at Kiln Field Circa 1957
by Michael Boyle
Our holidays Tattie Howkin.
Freezing mornings
sore backs, blistered hands.
‘All shook up’ ooh yeah yeah,
made us wish we were back
by Dreenan school hearth.
October time of freedom.
Guldering, gatching, calling out,
Clowning, carrying on and rackets
gatherers not doing their share.
Spuds put in light wire baskets
Wooden crates stuck in the mud.
That Friday -the world changed
Sputnik One moved across the sky.
But our job was to gather them
auld praties on hilly kiln field.
Gathered decaying potato stems
looked like withered bones. We
stacked them high, lit this bone fire
on Hallows Eve to worship
ancient Celtic Gods even though
hey couldn’t prevent
the Great Hunger. Today
no potatoes grown here anymore
Michael Boyle is a native of Lavey, Derry, Ireland. His poems have appeared in the The Antigonish Review, Dalhousie Review, Tinteán and New Ulster Writing. He lives in St John’s New Foundland, where he conducts a historical walking tour and has recently published a memoir On New Turf about his life in Ireland and in Newfoundland
Tinteán 