An Ghaeilge/IGaelik/Iers/Irish
Altrúchas
Is tar éis di bleid a bhualadh ar an Ainchríost ag cros an bhóthair, is steipeáil a bhaint as, báite go smior ina cliabhrach a d’fhan fiacla a phíce iarainne. Is theip ar gach ruathar a rinne sí é a bhogadh as a corp. Is d’fháisc greim a bhéil, is cheangail sé thart fána croí mar a bheadh greim an fhir bháite. Is dhruid sí gar dá clann, iad siúd nár airigh a fulaingt, a bpící fhéin á lugáil acusan, is shéan siad cineáltas is ciúnas di, go láidreodh sí. Rud éicint faoi na fataí ite, an bainne doirte is an diabhal déanta. Cuireann sí a muinín sa domhan mór, is déanann sí leipreach ar thóir a slánaitheora.
Fear guagach a bhuaileann léi, fear de thoilíochtaí éagsúla. Fear a scal
an solas ba ghile is a chuir í insna huaigheanna ba dhorcha ag an am céanna. Le focal, le gníomh, le cor a shúl, le cuar a choirp. Fear le
coirnéil is imill ghéara, fear a tharraing aisti le cumhacht a fhocal is a
mhéid. Fear le lámha síoda is croí cloiche. Fear a sheachain an grá, ar
fhaitíos go leáfadh sé, go n-osclódh sé is go lagfaí é. Is ansiúd a rinne
sí a nead, ag treabhadh cosáin chun ceangal a dhéanamh leis. Is bhog
sí é le ola an ghrá, gur lúb sé is gur mhaothaigh sé. Is nuair a shéimhigh sé, déanadh spruadar den phíce is leáigh sé.
Julie Breathnach-Banwait
Julie Breathnach-Banwait – Vicipéid/Julie Breathnach-Banwait – Wikipedia
Julie Breathnach-Banwait – Corp Portaigh (Gaeilge – Irish) | IMLD 2023
Julie Breathnach-Banwait: Six poems in Irish with English translations by the poet | The High Window
Julie Breathnach-Banwait – Pierian Springs Press
An emigrant Gaeilgeoir dusts off her Irish in the Australian bush – The Irish Times
S6E13: Julie Breathnach-Banwait – Irish Poetry From Tasmania
Altruism
And after she accosted the devil at the crossroads and danced with him, she bore the prongs of his pitchfork buried in her chest. Her attempts to dislodge resisted, as the teeth sank deeper, clenching her heart in a drowning man’s grip. Approaching family, blind to her pain, all God-fearing and law-abiding they were, toting similar demons, denying her kindness or solitude to see if she could dislodge them herself. Something about made beds, spilt milk and the harm done. She puts her blind faith in humanity. And leaps to find her saviour.
A fickle man she meets, a man of varied displacements, who could shine the brightest of lights and bury one in the darkest of graves simultaneously, with word and deed equally, with the twist of his eye,
the curve of his body. A man of angles and sharp edges, who held over
her his power of size and word. A silk-handed man of a hard heart, a man who shunned love, lest it melt him open and thaw him weak. And
there she nested, furrowing trails to meet him, and softened him slowly, oiling those creaking feelings to tenderness. And when mellowed, the fork in her chest crumbled and vaporised.
Translation: Julie Breathnach-Banwait
***
Bé
Níor fhoghlaim sí riamh
gan amharc
ar bheithíoch fiáin idir an dá shúil,
nach féidir léi eitilt:
dá fhad an lá,
tá súil ghrinn aici
chun solas beannaitheach.
Bíonn sí ag damhsa
i dtiúin leis na leoithní farraige,
iarrann sí comhairle ar na scamaill,
cuireann sí cogar i gcluas na gcrann,
caitheann sí fleá as scréach na bpearaicítí;
ní théann sí a chodladh riamh.
Feicim í trí
spéirléas an mheán oíche –
ag cur an ghealach faoina draíocht,
an réaltra faoina ladhracha:
is má táim doirte di,
an aird a thugann sí orm,
tá sé domhain
agus díomuan.
Anne Casey
anne-casey.com
@1annecasey
Muse
She has never learned
not to look
a wild beast in the eye,
that she can’t fly:
much-bitten, hypernaturally
attracted to light.
She dances to the song
of the ocean breeze,
takes counsel from clouds,
whispers with trees,
feasts on lorikeet
shrieks, never sleeps.
I see her through
a midnight skylight – bewitching
the moon, a galaxy
at her feet: though I adore her,
her attentions are deep
and brief.
Translation: Anne Casey