Dymphna Lonergan, Julie Breathnach-Banwait.
Marthanóir
Dymphna Lonergan
Go déanach san iarnóin, anonn is anall suas Sliabh Wellington, ag breathnú ar dheis agus ar chlé do na beacáin choincréite taobh leis an mbealach isteach. Faoi dheireadh, bhíomar ann agus ansin ag tiomáint go héiginnte thar an gcabhsa garbh fada go dtí an sean teach adhmaid. Ár gcara i bhfráma sa doras, níos sine, níos tánaí. Ina aonar.
‘Sea, tá sé thíos anseo, tá sé agam go fóill.’ Leanamar é síos an pasáiste agus isteach i seomra suí chun an pictiúr a fheiceáil, do bhronntanas bainise dóibh le linn do thréimhse ghearr réamh-Raphaelite.
Os ár gcomhair amach, íomhá shé troithe ar chanbhás, amhail is inné a bhí sé péinteáilte. Báite faoi sholas. Gorm glórmhar, glas téamh galánta, bándearg bagrach, dearg dána. An lánúin bhainise, a gcinn claonta i dtreo a chéile. An fear le lámh dheis ar a chlaíomh. Súile dúnta. Machnamhach sa spás naofa dúnta seo.
Ag tiomáint dom síos an fhána réalta, soilse Launceston ag síneadh amach trasna na dtonnta go dtí ár mbaile in Adelaide. Sé mhí de cheimiteiripe os do chomhair amach, agus cá bhfios ina dhiaidh sin. Tagann an líne dheireanach don ‘Arundel Tomb’ chugam. ‘What will survive of us is love.’
Survivor
Late in the afternoon, winding up Mount Wellington, looking right and left for the concrete mushrooms beside the entrance. At last, we were there, and then driving hesitantly over the long rough driveway to the old wooden house. Our friend framed in the doorway, older, thinner. Alone.
‘Yes, it’s down here. I still have it.’ We followed him down the passage and into a living room to see the picture, your wedding gift to them during your short pre-Raphaelite phase.
In front of us, a six-foot image on canvas, as if it had been painted yesterday. Glorious blue, elegant warming green, threatening pink, bold red. The wedding couple, their heads leaning towards each other. The man with his right hand on his sword. Eyes closed. Reflective in this sacred enclosed space.
Driving down the starry slope, the lights of Launceston stretching out across the waves to our home in Adelaide, six months of chemotherapy ahead of you, and who knows what after that. The last line of ‘The Arundel Tomb’ comes to me. ‘What will survive of us is love.’
Is scríbhneoir dátheangach í Dymphna Lonergan. Scríobhann sí filíocht agus gearr scéalta i ngaeilge agus i mbearla.
Dymphna Lonergan is a South Australian based bilingual writer of Irish short stories and poetry.
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Slogán codlata
Julie Breathnach-Banwait
Istoíche, is greim an lae bogtha, na cuirtíní troma veilbhite tarraingthe trasna ardán an lae, an lucht féachana scaipthe, scaoiltear leat. Is sleamhnaíonn tú isteach i slogán an chodlata. Is uait a sciorrann dualgaisí an lae mar a bheadh búcla scaoilte ar chulaith iarainne, is leánn sé síos na colpaí chun talaimh. Níl fáil ort anois. Tá tú cumhdaithe i do bhrat fhéin. Is tír í an codladh gan teorainn, gan cloig, gan spéir ná talamh, gan éileamh. Is tú captaen do chinniúna fhéin. Is réabhlóid tú in aghaidh inneall an tsaoil. An síor-rollú. Is istigh i suan an chodlata tá tú gan dath, gan guth, gan sruth ná mapa, gan ceann scríbe.
Is glacann an cholainn síocháin, is cruinníonn an spiorad é fhéin le chéile, á bhailiú is á dhíriú féin mar a bheadh píosaí páipéar a thógfá ó bhosca bruscair á n-iarnáil le cúl do bhos – is réitíonn sé d’athbhreith na maidine, mar a bheadh síol an earraigh, nua is lasta, is lán le brí cruinnithe is curtha i dtaisce. Is leis an maidneachan, síntear chuig an domhan mór arís tú, is ídítear tú, plaic i ndiaidh plaic, síos ina scornach thirim gan deoch.
Sleep vortex
At night, with the day’s grip softened, those heavy velvet curtains pulled across the day’s stage, the audience scattered, you are released and you slip into the vortex of sleep. The day’s duties sliding away like a loosened buckle on an iron suit, melting down the calves to the ground. You are now not for finding. You are shrouded in your own cloth. Sleep is a boundary-less country, without clocks, without sky nor ground, without demand. You are captain of your own chance. A revolution against the machine of life. The eternal rolling. In the lull of slumber you are colourless, voiceless, without stream or map, without destination.
And your body accepts this peace, and the spirit collects itself together, gathering and straightening itself like a piece of paper retrieved from a bin smoothed with the back of your hand – and it prepares for morning’s rebirth, like a spring seedling, new and lit and full of the strength that was gathered and stored frugally. By dawn, you are handed to the world, and consumed, bite by bite into its thirsty throat.
Is file agus scríbhneoir dátheangach í Julie Breathnach-Banwait.
Julie Breathnach Banwait is a bilingual poet and writer.
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