All posts filed under: Irish Language

The Blue Hare (An Giorria Gorm) and other poems by Jackie Gorman

The Blue Hare Stepping off the path, a silver car rushes by. I never saw it coming, yet I felt the ground give way. I knelt down within myself. The hare that lives in my mind, snug in her thick coat and safe in her wide-open eyes, breaks free and runs across me. She purrs, sniffs my body, looks up, pisses and moves on. So it happens that I am reborn into my warm russet fur and strong legs. Mountain hare, white hare, Irish hare, blue hare. Many names, one thumping spirit. A hare will not move until it has to, stillness and camouflage its defence, safe in its form of flattened earth. What does it mean to be free? Hare breath touching the ribs. Watching everything going still, galloping through swirls of thyme, sedge and gorse.   An Giorria Gorm Faoi choiscéim den teach tiomáineann carr gheal faoi dheifir. Ní fhaca mé ag teacht é, ach baineadh croitheadh as an talún. Téim síos ar mo ghlúine i mo chroí istigh. An giorria a mhaireann …

A celebration of Irish Women Poets on Bloomsday 2019

“Yes” by Afric McGlinchey (after Molly Bloom in James Joyce’s Ulysses) …yes and then I touched my finger to his lips to stroke away the cider, and put it to mine and our tongues went plunging – such a lush sweetness – the grass so springy-soft on the cliff and the waves crashing below and I had to catch my breath and the night’s perfume drowned that tang of lamb and I thought of my first kiss – what was his name? Johnny? – yes, his tongue so unexpected, wriggling like an eel, but this time it felt different, and even his silence didn’t matter when he stared, stared at my breasts and I let my hair slip loose like that Cape Town girl, and you have moonlight in your eyes, he said so I took him in my hand and he whispered, would I, ma petite phalène, he said and I thought I may as well, as well him as another, and the sea was swirling below us in a froth the sky gorgeous …

“Beochaoineadh Máthar Maoise” and other poems by Ellen Nic Thomás

Beochaoineadh Máthar Maoise A dhílleachta linbh gan ainm, gan athair, Do chraiceann ar aondath le humha an nathair, A lúbann timpeall do thaobhán uiríseal, Mar bhata ceannródaí is sníomhanna sisil. Is trua liom ciseán do dhóchas a fhíochán, Do dhán a chaitheamh i bpoll an duibheagáin, D’eiseadh a chruthú ar bhunús baill séire, ‘Nois tá tú chomh cotúil leis an gCailleach Bhéarra. A iníon, a mhiceo, a ógfhlaith bocht, A leanbh truaillithe, maith dom mo locht, Imigh anois leat, ná bí do mo chrá, Le smaointe ciúinchiontacha ó mhaidin go lá.   Ordóg Fhinn Ordóg Fhinn — The salmons skin Brushes the truth to his lip. The cardinal sin The space within — He dares to taste a sip. Blistering bliss The hero’s kiss Upon one fingertip. The bubble bursts, The burning thirst — Quenched.   Itch Not a fever-stirring, raging thing, The kind of sore that, left alone, won’t sting, But crueller still it tempts me to indulge To rake the wound and make the blisters bulge. It calls my nails to dig deep …

A Celebration of Irish Women Poets on Bloomsday 2017

“Canal Walk Home” by Gillian Hamill   What is it About the power of the water To heal hurts   Three lads sit on the boardwalk They hardly look like delicate sorts. And yet they gaze out Contemplate The rushing rippling mottles of the Undulating lake Can soothe souls.   Car lights are reflected in Striking streaks, always dappling Buzzy thrill of Modern pyrotechnics In the most basic of Science laws.   Edged by banking sycamore leaves I took one and put it in my pocket To describe it better. The smell of its earthy salt and bark Present. And the bare elegance Of stripped black branches Spearing themselves into the night air Soldered into the genesis Of life And yes they are Wild quiet.   A little further on There’s a piece of street art says Only the river runs free And maybe that’s the attraction Of this portal into liberty.   And then to gaze down the row Through Camden Street from Portobello The multi-potted chimney tops Sophisticated lego bricks Pricked by the …

“Ceathrúintí Mháire Ní Ógáin” and “A fhir dar fhulaingeas” by Máire Mhac an tSaoi

Máire Mhac an tSaoi poetry Original Irish versions followed by English translations . Ceathrúintí Mháire Ní Ógáin I Ach a mbead gafa as an líon so – Is nár lige Dia gur fada san – B’fhéidir go bhfónfaidh cuimhneamh Ar a bhfuaireas de shuaimhneas id bhaclainn Nuair a bheidh arm o chumas guíochtaint, Comaoine is éiteacht Aifrinn, Cé déarfaidh ansan nach cuí dhom Ar ‘shonsa is arm o shon féin achaine? Ach comhairle idir dhá linn duit, Ná téir ródhílis in achrann, Mar go bhfuilimse meáite ar scaoileadh Pé cuibhreann a snaidhmfear eadrainn. II Beagbheann ar amhras daoine, Beagbheann ar chros na sagart, Ar gach ní ach bheith sínte Idir tú agus falla – Neamhshuim liom fuacht na hoíche, Neamhshuim liom scríb is fearthainn, Sa domhan cúng rúin teolaí seo Ná téann thar fhaobhar na leapan – Ar a bhfuil romhainn ní smaoinfeam, Ar a bhfuil déanta cheana, Linne an uain, a chroí istigh, Is mairfidh sí go maidin. III Achar bliana atáim Ag luí farat id chlúid, Deacair anois a rá Cad leis a …