Poem
Derry O’Sullivan
Tarzan in Exile
Why was I dry-eyedThe day I buried Dad
But two seasons later
I almost died
Grieving him?
A week after the burial
Did not I cut his grandson’s umbilical,
As I still wore my black mourning tie
Swinging like a thurible
Over my newborn child?
Did the nurses look askance at
The clay stain left by his coffin
On the shoulder of my jacket?
I stepped off the Cork plane at Charles de Gaulle
And sped to the maternity,
Still dressed for death
At the feast of birth!
Long ago,
Dad was not carrying packed earth
But me on his shoulders,
Where I rode like a tiny Tarzan on an elephant
Through the bulls, stallions and wethers
At Bantry Fair by the cloudy Atlantic.
I throw back my head,
Heedless of the strolling Parisians –
Long ago was I not taller than their Eiffel Tower?
Not giving a toss for their social niceties,
Or their “comme il faut“,
Or the gaping gendarmes
I bare my teeth,
I fill my lungs
With the breezes from the Seine
And
I roar, I roar, I roar
At my highest pitch,
I am Lord of the jungle in exile
But broadcasting
My remounting to an elephant’s realm
Whose distant charge I hear,
Already trumpeting
His way over the Atlantic
To join me.
© Translation: 2013, Derry O\'Sullivan
Tarzan ar Deoraíocht
Tarzan ar Deoraíocht
Arbh é mise nár ghoilAg sochraid m’athar
Ach gur dhóbair dom
Dhá ráithe dá héis
Éag dá chumha?
Nó mise a ghearr
Imleacán a gharmhic
Seachtain agus lá a adhlactha,
Mo charbhat dubh caointe
Ag luascadh mar thúiseán
Os cionn an naí nuabheirthe?
Ar stán na banaltraí
Ar straidhp chré a chónra
Ar ghualainn mo sheaicéid?
Níor thúisce tuirlingt ón eitleán
Ná siúd ar an gclinic mé
Gléasta chun báis
Ag féile na breithe!
Anallód,
Níor chré a d’iompair m’athair
Ach mise ar a shlinneáin
Mar ba Tarzan beag mé ar eilifint
Ag aonach Bheanntraí!
Caithim siar mo cheann,
Beag beann ar na coisithe –
Nárbh airde mé tráth ná a dTúr Eiffel! –
Nach cuma liom an mór is fiú,
An “comme il faut”,
An t-ionadh ar bhéal gendarme?
Caithim siar mo bheola,
Líonaim mo scamhóga
De ghaoth na Séine
Agus
Béicim, béicim, béicim
In ard mo ghutha,
Mé Tiarna na dufaire
Ar deoraíocht
Ach ag craobhscaoileadh
A athghabhála ar ríocht eilifinte
Dá gcloisim a sodar cianda,
A trumpadóireacht cheana
Ag druidim liom thar na tonnta.
© 2009, Derry O\'Sullivan
From: An bhfuil cead agam dul amach, más é do thoil é?
Publisher: Coiscéim, Dublin
From: An bhfuil cead agam dul amach, más é do thoil é?
Publisher: Coiscéim, Dublin
Poems
Poems of Derry O’Sullivan
Close
Tarzan in Exile
Why was I dry-eyedThe day I buried Dad
But two seasons later
I almost died
Grieving him?
A week after the burial
Did not I cut his grandson’s umbilical,
As I still wore my black mourning tie
Swinging like a thurible
Over my newborn child?
Did the nurses look askance at
The clay stain left by his coffin
On the shoulder of my jacket?
I stepped off the Cork plane at Charles de Gaulle
And sped to the maternity,
Still dressed for death
At the feast of birth!
Long ago,
Dad was not carrying packed earth
But me on his shoulders,
Where I rode like a tiny Tarzan on an elephant
Through the bulls, stallions and wethers
At Bantry Fair by the cloudy Atlantic.
I throw back my head,
Heedless of the strolling Parisians –
Long ago was I not taller than their Eiffel Tower?
Not giving a toss for their social niceties,
Or their “comme il faut“,
Or the gaping gendarmes
I bare my teeth,
I fill my lungs
With the breezes from the Seine
And
I roar, I roar, I roar
At my highest pitch,
I am Lord of the jungle in exile
But broadcasting
My remounting to an elephant’s realm
Whose distant charge I hear,
Already trumpeting
His way over the Atlantic
To join me.
© 2013, Derry O\'Sullivan
From: An bhfuil cead agam dul amach, más é do thoil é?
From: An bhfuil cead agam dul amach, más é do thoil é?
Tarzan in Exile
Why was I dry-eyedThe day I buried Dad
But two seasons later
I almost died
Grieving him?
A week after the burial
Did not I cut his grandson’s umbilical,
As I still wore my black mourning tie
Swinging like a thurible
Over my newborn child?
Did the nurses look askance at
The clay stain left by his coffin
On the shoulder of my jacket?
I stepped off the Cork plane at Charles de Gaulle
And sped to the maternity,
Still dressed for death
At the feast of birth!
Long ago,
Dad was not carrying packed earth
But me on his shoulders,
Where I rode like a tiny Tarzan on an elephant
Through the bulls, stallions and wethers
At Bantry Fair by the cloudy Atlantic.
I throw back my head,
Heedless of the strolling Parisians –
Long ago was I not taller than their Eiffel Tower?
Not giving a toss for their social niceties,
Or their “comme il faut“,
Or the gaping gendarmes
I bare my teeth,
I fill my lungs
With the breezes from the Seine
And
I roar, I roar, I roar
At my highest pitch,
I am Lord of the jungle in exile
But broadcasting
My remounting to an elephant’s realm
Whose distant charge I hear,
Already trumpeting
His way over the Atlantic
To join me.
© 2013, Derry O\'Sullivan
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