Poem
Áine Uí Fhoghlú
In the Doctor’s Waiting Room, 1974
The spin downhill from school on two bikeswas no bother,
an escape.
Sitting on a form, back to the cold wall
my idle eye falls on a copy of Time magazine,
an unwanted utility:
in this parliament where debates concern
unwell children at home drinking boiled 7up
Nixon’s ailments are not priority.
I learn the curative opinions
of each mother there
before they proceed one by one
up two stone steps,
behind the blue door
all secrets are revealed
to the wise woman
in Tuesday confessions.
We get a good education here
because a nod is as good as a wink
to us, already half wise
we fix our gaze on the cement floor
and the ankles beyond, on the
empty fireplace, on the glow of the
electric fire, on the blue door
we listen sharply to whisperings
and skittering about carnal matters
from these non-feminist criminals
who break every law every morning
with their prayers and deeds against
fertility
we understand the sweetness
of their Smarties.
There’s only one woman missing
from the gathering –
she’s not feeling too well today,
I suppose.
© Translation: 2014, Áine Uí Fhoghlú
The poet (and translator) wishes to state that she views these translations as a means of insight unto the original text rather than as fully fledged literary works in themselves.
I Seomra Feithimh an Dochtúra, 1974
I Seomra Feithimh an Dochtúra, 1974
Níorbh aon stró turas le fána ar dhá rotharón scoil,
éalú.
Suite ar fhuarma, drom le falla
fuar titeann mo shúil díomhaoin
ar iris Time, áirnéis gan éileamh:
sa phairlimint seo mar a gcíortar
ceisteanna páistí easlán
atá sa mbaile ag ól 7up beirithe
ní cás aicídí Nixon.
Foghlaimím tuairimí téarnaimh
gach máthar acu
sula dtéann siad ina nduine
agus ina nduine
suas dhá chéim arda cloiche,
taobh thiar den doras gorm
a nochtar gach rún
don bhean feasa
i bhfaoistiní na Máirte.
Faighimid oiliúint mhaith mar
is leor nod dúinne atá leath-eolach
dírímid ár súile ar an urlár soiminte
agus ar na rúitíní thall, ar an
tinteán folamh, ar bhreodheirge
an téiteora leictreach, ar an doras gorm
éistímid go géar le
cogar-mogar is scigireacht
ar chúrsaí collaí
ó choirpigh neamh-fheimineacha
a bhriseann gach dlí
gach maidin lena nguí agus a ngníomh
in aghaidh na torthúlachta
tuigimid milseacht
a gcuid Smarties.
Níl ar iarraidh
ón dtionól ach bean amháin -
níl sí
ar fónamh inniu,
is dócha.
© 2007, Áine Uí Fhoghlú
From: An Liú sa Chuan
Publisher: Coiscéim, Dublin
From: An Liú sa Chuan
Publisher: Coiscéim, Dublin
Poems
Poems of Áine Uí Fhoghlú
Close
In the Doctor’s Waiting Room, 1974
The spin downhill from school on two bikeswas no bother,
an escape.
Sitting on a form, back to the cold wall
my idle eye falls on a copy of Time magazine,
an unwanted utility:
in this parliament where debates concern
unwell children at home drinking boiled 7up
Nixon’s ailments are not priority.
I learn the curative opinions
of each mother there
before they proceed one by one
up two stone steps,
behind the blue door
all secrets are revealed
to the wise woman
in Tuesday confessions.
We get a good education here
because a nod is as good as a wink
to us, already half wise
we fix our gaze on the cement floor
and the ankles beyond, on the
empty fireplace, on the glow of the
electric fire, on the blue door
we listen sharply to whisperings
and skittering about carnal matters
from these non-feminist criminals
who break every law every morning
with their prayers and deeds against
fertility
we understand the sweetness
of their Smarties.
There’s only one woman missing
from the gathering –
she’s not feeling too well today,
I suppose.
© 2014, Áine Uí Fhoghlú
From: An Liú sa Chuan
From: An Liú sa Chuan
In the Doctor’s Waiting Room, 1974
The spin downhill from school on two bikeswas no bother,
an escape.
Sitting on a form, back to the cold wall
my idle eye falls on a copy of Time magazine,
an unwanted utility:
in this parliament where debates concern
unwell children at home drinking boiled 7up
Nixon’s ailments are not priority.
I learn the curative opinions
of each mother there
before they proceed one by one
up two stone steps,
behind the blue door
all secrets are revealed
to the wise woman
in Tuesday confessions.
We get a good education here
because a nod is as good as a wink
to us, already half wise
we fix our gaze on the cement floor
and the ankles beyond, on the
empty fireplace, on the glow of the
electric fire, on the blue door
we listen sharply to whisperings
and skittering about carnal matters
from these non-feminist criminals
who break every law every morning
with their prayers and deeds against
fertility
we understand the sweetness
of their Smarties.
There’s only one woman missing
from the gathering –
she’s not feeling too well today,
I suppose.
© 2014, Áine Uí Fhoghlú
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