Poem
Bríd Ní Mhóráin
Aisling Dhuibhneach 2002
Blessed is the Indian summer;Better still, the late harvest of words.
Golden is the reaping woman
Who scythes the treasured sunlight
At evening over Ard na Caithne.
She gathers the red flush of montbretia
From speckled ditches of the neighbourhood
She binds each bounty
Into sheaves of music
To keep you company by firelight,
To banish, for you, the frost of loneliness.
Don’t be backward about coming forward!
Fall to her stook of stories
Till your eyes water;
And when you taste old family grains
In the sweet cake of ancestral blessing
You will be filled to the brim
Like a cat of nine lives
Who made a harvest of the field mouse.
You were too long abroad
In the world of rough tongues,
A wretched little changeling
Who fled the whole system,
Here is the one less vocal
Who lives in the soul’s dazzling barn:
Stay in her orbit, where she’ll lead you
On the high roads of the word –
Across the threshold of silence
Where you will hear
The heartbeat and breath
And the harmony of what is.
© Translation: 2012, Thomas McCarthy
Aisling Dhuibhneach
Aisling Dhuibhneach
Is maith ann é fómhar na ngéannaAch is fearr fós fómhar na bhfocal.
Bean thréitheach í an buanaí
A bhaineann ór geal le buíú na gréine
Tráthnóna os cionn Ard na Caithne.
Bailíonn sí líofacht dhearg an montbretia
Ar chlathacha atá ag breacadh ar fud na dúiche.
Ceanglaíonn sí flúirse chraorac na bhfiúise
Ina bpunanna véarsaí ceolmhara
‘Choimeádfadh comhluadar leat cois tine
Is uaigneas ó dhoras oícheanta seaca.
Ná bíodh leisce ort teagmháil léi
Cuirfidh a stácaí scéalta uisce led’ fhiacla
Is nuair a bhlaisfir na gráinní milse
Sa chíste beag le beannacht na sinsear,
Beidh súp go cluasa ort ina ndiaidh
Mar a bhíonn ar chat na naoi mbua
Agus an beart déanta ar an luch fhéir aige.
Rófhada taoi ag plé le caint a chodail amuigh
Síofra beag mílítheach a d’éalaigh as meaisín.
Is í seo do theanga labhartha féin
A thaithíonn iothlainn ildathach an anama.
Fan ina teannta is tabharfaidh sí léi tú
Ar chonair uasal an bhriathair
Thar tairseach an chiúnais isteach
Mar a gcloisfir croí is anáil na cruinne
Ag bualadh go tomhaiste
I gcomhcheol an aoibhnis.
© 2006, Bríd Ní Mhóráin
From: Síolta an Iomais
Publisher: Cló Iar-Chonnachta, Connemara
From: Síolta an Iomais
Publisher: Cló Iar-Chonnachta, Connemara
Poems
Poems of Bríd Ní Mhóráin
Close
Aisling Dhuibhneach 2002
Blessed is the Indian summer;Better still, the late harvest of words.
Golden is the reaping woman
Who scythes the treasured sunlight
At evening over Ard na Caithne.
She gathers the red flush of montbretia
From speckled ditches of the neighbourhood
She binds each bounty
Into sheaves of music
To keep you company by firelight,
To banish, for you, the frost of loneliness.
Don’t be backward about coming forward!
Fall to her stook of stories
Till your eyes water;
And when you taste old family grains
In the sweet cake of ancestral blessing
You will be filled to the brim
Like a cat of nine lives
Who made a harvest of the field mouse.
You were too long abroad
In the world of rough tongues,
A wretched little changeling
Who fled the whole system,
Here is the one less vocal
Who lives in the soul’s dazzling barn:
Stay in her orbit, where she’ll lead you
On the high roads of the word –
Across the threshold of silence
Where you will hear
The heartbeat and breath
And the harmony of what is.
© 2012, Thomas McCarthy
From: Síolta an Iomais
From: Síolta an Iomais
Aisling Dhuibhneach 2002
Blessed is the Indian summer;Better still, the late harvest of words.
Golden is the reaping woman
Who scythes the treasured sunlight
At evening over Ard na Caithne.
She gathers the red flush of montbretia
From speckled ditches of the neighbourhood
She binds each bounty
Into sheaves of music
To keep you company by firelight,
To banish, for you, the frost of loneliness.
Don’t be backward about coming forward!
Fall to her stook of stories
Till your eyes water;
And when you taste old family grains
In the sweet cake of ancestral blessing
You will be filled to the brim
Like a cat of nine lives
Who made a harvest of the field mouse.
You were too long abroad
In the world of rough tongues,
A wretched little changeling
Who fled the whole system,
Here is the one less vocal
Who lives in the soul’s dazzling barn:
Stay in her orbit, where she’ll lead you
On the high roads of the word –
Across the threshold of silence
Where you will hear
The heartbeat and breath
And the harmony of what is.
© 2012, Thomas McCarthy
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