Aistear Ghabh sé trí na sráideannaistoíchemar ghadaí nó teachtaire an ghealach ina lóchrannna réaltaíá n-ídiú féin ar maidinbhí na sléibhte anngan fáilte gan doicheall gaoth scallta lastall díobhgaineamhlach go bun na spéire lig sé don ghaineamh é a bhálig sé chuige an t-íonú Journey He passed through the streets at night like a thief or …
My poem was written in English and in Irish, so I needed to find a suitable Irish term for a Dust Devil.
Not another house in Ireland
ever had had so many
Saint Brigit crosses made by
Tá racht agus tnúth ann, agus ní cheiltear an chollaíocht.
Her voice is the voice of a young woman who did not hide her sexuality.
The Irish language thriving in Australian soil.
The sun slips behind the black silhouettes of the Rockies.
Fingers and ears chill with disturbing speed.
Faster than in an Irish winter dusk.
agus an ciúnas/a d’fhág an té a chuaigh
in airde fadó/ina dhiaidh
and the quietness left by the one who went up long ago
The wind coursed through the trees –
an invisible ship,
its sails whiffling and hallooing,
its weightless heft juddering.
The world seemed clear. The questions started later in life or when we went to the cities and were asked to convert and change our language to English, sometimes politely sometimes not so much. We got used to the requests, ‘can you please say that in English?’ or the statements ‘We speak English in here’ or ‘I’m afraid we don’t speak that language here’.
‘In the laundry room,
you unspooled your story to the others…’