Trácht an tsléibhe
Le Julie Breathnach-Banwait
Anuas taobh an chnoic – ón ngabhdán tí meirgeach úd, tógtha ar na cosa tanaí miotail, nuair a bhuaileann néal an ghrian is a cuid oibre curtha di, is í ag réiteach chun suain – a dhoirteann an slua. Báibíní beaga fillte isteach ina bpócaí brollaigh, a gcrúcaí curláilte ar seó, is dhá shúil ataithe le scéin is airdeall díríthe síos ar an ngleann sínte rompu. Sciorrann siad trasna an chosáin, ina sluaite scartha, iomlán clainne is gaolta lena dtaobh, caochta ag lampaí an chairr seo atá stoptha chun an radharc diaga seo a adhradh. Le fuadar a scinneann siad, ag leipreach mar a dhéanfadh na céadta liathróidí pumpáilte is líonta le aer te, priompalláin mhóra ataithe, feithidí na créithe seo ag tuirlingt amach as na cnoic. Baineann an rúille búille tafann as mo ghaidhrín, is siúd leis le sruth an tslua, á scaradh óna chéile, an feairín beag seo ag glacadh páirt i gcath ró-ollmhór dó, is dóchas aige ar a sheilg, é scuabtha le racht fuinnimh is sotalacht, síos go bun an tsléibhe, seasann sé a fhód go hamaideach is a dhá chos deiridh díríthe in aghaidh an chré, a dhrioball sínte amach, a cheathrúna gafa le daol troda. Na starrfhiacail ar seó go dúshlánach. Ní thugann an slua aird air is siúd leo ag spriongáil thar mhullach an tsléibhe á fhágail sa gcró troda gan comhluadar speárála.
Hill traffic
Down the side of the hill – from that container house on stilts, when the sun desires to nap, readies for sleep, her work done – the hoards spill. Little babies folded into their breast pockets, their curled claws on show, eyes swollen in fright and vigilance directing towards the glen stretched before them. They skim over the path, in dispersed clans, entire families aside them, blinded by the lamps of this car paused to worship this sacred sight. They slide in bustle, leaping like hundreds of pumped balls full of hot air, large swollen dung beetles, the insects of this soil hurdling out of the hills. The commotion makes my little dog bark, and off he surges with the stream of the hoards, spreading them apart, this little man partaking in a battle too grand, hopeful in his hunt, swept by a fit of energy and arrogance, down to the foot of the hill, he foolishly stands his ground, his back legs firm against the soil, his tail stiffened, his thighs firmed with a desire for aggression. His canines displayed daringly. The hoards pay little heed and bounce past the head of the hill, leaving him in an empty ring without a sparring companion.
Tá an prósdhán seo tógtha as leabhar nua le Julie darbh ainm An Folmhú a bheas á chur i gcló i 2027.
This prose poem is taken from Julie’s new book An Folmhú (The Emptying) due for release in 2027.
Is scríbhneoir dátheangach í Julie atá lonnaithe faoi láthair sna Goldfields, Iarthar na hAstráile.
Julie is a bilingual writer currently living in the Goldfields-Esperance area of Western Australia.
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Colin Ryan
An tír úd
Rachaimid chun na tíre úd
lán le gairdíní fásta
le tithe a creachadh is iad
i seilbh na mbacach anois
is loch ann atá breac le healaí
is scáil na gealaí inti
go bhfeicfimid an leac
is ár n-ainm greanta inti
faoi scáth an chrainn anaithnid
faoi scáth na heite duibhe
That land
We will go to that land
full of overgrown gardens
with plundered houses
now possessed by beggars
where there is a lake dotted with swans
with the moon reflected there
that we may see the stone
with our name engraved on it
under the shadow of the unknown tree
under the black wing’s shadow
Clasaiceach
Sa chuimhne amháin a mhair an ceol
an nóta beo is é ann ar éigean
ag sleamhnú uainn i mbéal an aeir
is an saol amuigh ag éirí dorcha
i ngréasán craobhacha
is madra na hoíche faoi lampaí
ag taiscéalaíocht
is an ceol ag trá is ag borradh
sa seomra solasmhar
Classical
In the memory alone the music stayed
the living note barely there
sliding away from us into the air
while the world outside grew dark
in a web of branches
with the night dog under lamps
exploring
and the music ebbing and swelling
in the lighted room
Is scríbhneoir dátheangach é Colin Ryan as Melbourne, Victoria. Tá a chuid oibre le feiceáil go rialta i dTinteán.
Colin Ryan is a bilingual writer from Melbourne, Victoria. He is a regular contributor to Tinteán.
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A Bhríd, bandia an tsolais
le Anne Casey
Nuair a fheiceann tú an chruinne
seo againne, agus é trí thine,
an bhfiafraíonn tú díot féin faoi bhaois an tsaoil seo
agus sinne ag tarraingt i bhfad i gcoinne do theagaisc?
A Bhríd, saolú ón tsolais,
‘s tú gléasta go huile i ndíonbhrat grianbhuí —
lorg do choiscéimeanna a ghin an t-aiteann agus an fhéithleann,
is tusa a chaith do bhrat órga thar chnoic agus gleannta,
is tusa a dhúisigh Duir uasal, ardrí an dúlra
chun ceol na beatha a chasadh
trí fhoraoisí síorghlasa fonnadóireachta,
moladh an smólaigh ag baint macalla as na coillte.
Tusa a chuir bradáin ghléigeala ag léim
in aghaidh an tsrutha shléibhe —
cuir glaoch orainn anois,
iarr orainn deoch a chaitheamh as do thobar beannaithe,
leigheas a fháil i do theampall solais,
ardmheas a chur arís ar an dúlra allta ionúin.
Brigid, goddess of light
Watching our world burn,
you must wonder how we have wandered
so far from your way.
Goddess born of light,
swathed in a cape of sunbeams
you, whose footfalls blossomed
to plant our path with succulent honeysuckle,
gilding every hill in rolling gorse,
raising Duir the mighty oak to teem in humming forests,
to fill with song of thrush,
setting salmon to leap quicksilver over rilling streams—
call us back now to drink from your precious wellspring,
to heal in your temple of light,
to worship again your sacred wilds.
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Returning
by Robyn Rowland
I fold into their remade hay shed,
Mary and Joe’s kindness jam-sweet,
subtle comfort, familiar as the sea
trundling rocks on Ceann Doolin
just out front, as it rolls marbled stone
back and forth never tiring of the task.
The sand is in: time to come home.
The pony and donkey peer in, so you’d
think it a postcard make-up but it’s
real life. That’s what I remember.
That’s what I miss. That we all knew
the good and the bad of each,
settled ourselves into our differences
with respect. And the land here.
Small distance up the road I visit
my once home, vacant now of
everything me, Irish throws, loads of
Turkish rugs, paintings, ghost of parties past.
But still the fuchsia I planted beside
the stone fence thrives; regular-like
shines its purple, crimson tears.
I can’t cut it; slit the vessels, flesh to land.
Something’s gone missing in me.
A phantom place or something left behind.
Oh, I said that in 1983 and look
what happened! Sure, I need to go back,
not to visit, to lie myself in again.
Find again the tongue I know is mine.
Robyn Rowland, an Irish-Australian citizen, lived between Ireland and Victoria for 40 years, working in Turkey since 2009. She now lives in regional Victoria. With 12 poetry books, including 2 bilingual in Turkish/English: Under This Saffron Sun – Safran Güneşin Altında, (Ireland 2019) and This Intimate War Gallipoli/Çanakkale 1915 – İçli Dışlı Bir Savaş: Gelibolu/Çanakkale 1915 (Australia & Türkiye), her most recent is Steep Curve, 5Islands Press, Australia, 2024. She has read in 11 countries. Her poetry appears in multiple national/international journals, over 50 anthologies, and in film with the Irish Poetry Reading Archive, James Joyce Library, UCD, available on YouTube.
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Tinteán 