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Poem

Ceaití Ní Bheildiúin

ENLIGHTENMENT IN THE CONDEMNED MOUTH

l.          The Subtracting
 
 
Is it right to part the language
from the memory
 
the memory from the story
the story from the song
 
the song from the poem
the poem from the tradition
 
the tradition from the history
the history from the land
 
the land from the placename
the placename from the geography
 
the geography from the ecology
the ecology from the faith
 
the faith from the prayer
the prayer from the soul
 
when it is a bad omen to have a soul
parted from its tongue?
 
 
 
 
 
ll.         The Adding
 
 
 
I peel back the thin layer of moss
revealing layer upon layer of words
 
that are no longer formed by voice or mouth;
syntax, strange to the man of today
 
which filters down through rock and bog
into the source of a loose-tongued river.
 
And I pour humbly, in on top
my small collection of words
 
pleading with the mountain to take possession of the syllables
because I hear each word amongst them
 
tormented, the need in them to be linked back
each creature of them calling to its elders
 
below: Stop! Come back to us!
Don’t go under the eclipse.
 
 

SANAS SA GHOB DAORTHA

SANAS SA GHOB DAORTHA

l.          An Dealú 
 
 
An ceart an teanga
a dhealú ón gcuimhne
 
an chuimhne ón scéal
an scéal ón amhrán
 
an t-amhrán ón dán
an dán ón traidisiún
 
an traidisiún ón stair
an stair ón talamh
 
an talamh ón logainm
an logainm ón tíreolaíocht
 
an tíreolaíocht ón éiceolaíocht
an éiceolaíocht ón gcreideamh
 
an creideamh ón bpaidir
an phaidir ón anam
 
nuair mana is ea anam
scartha óna teanga?
 
 
 
 
 
ll.         An Suimiú
 
 
 
Scamhaim an scraith chaol chaonaigh siar
ag nochtadh sraith anuas ar shraith d’fhocail
 
nach múnlaítear i ngion nó i ngob níos mó;
comhréir, coimhthíoch d’fhear an lae inniu
 
a shíothlaíonn trí charraig is trí phortach
isteach i bhfoinse bhéalscaoilte abhann.
 
Is doirtim go humhal
mo chnuasach beag focal orthu
 
ag impí ar an gcnoc na siollaí a shealbhú
mar go gcloisim gach briathar iontu
 
ciaptha, gá acu le nascadh siar
gach neach ag glaoch ar a shinsear
 
thíos: Stad! Fill chugainn!
Ná himigh faoin urú.
 
Close

ENLIGHTENMENT IN THE CONDEMNED MOUTH

l.          The Subtracting
 
 
Is it right to part the language
from the memory
 
the memory from the story
the story from the song
 
the song from the poem
the poem from the tradition
 
the tradition from the history
the history from the land
 
the land from the placename
the placename from the geography
 
the geography from the ecology
the ecology from the faith
 
the faith from the prayer
the prayer from the soul
 
when it is a bad omen to have a soul
parted from its tongue?
 
 
 
 
 
ll.         The Adding
 
 
 
I peel back the thin layer of moss
revealing layer upon layer of words
 
that are no longer formed by voice or mouth;
syntax, strange to the man of today
 
which filters down through rock and bog
into the source of a loose-tongued river.
 
And I pour humbly, in on top
my small collection of words
 
pleading with the mountain to take possession of the syllables
because I hear each word amongst them
 
tormented, the need in them to be linked back
each creature of them calling to its elders
 
below: Stop! Come back to us!
Don’t go under the eclipse.
 
 

ENLIGHTENMENT IN THE CONDEMNED MOUTH

l.          The Subtracting
 
 
Is it right to part the language
from the memory
 
the memory from the story
the story from the song
 
the song from the poem
the poem from the tradition
 
the tradition from the history
the history from the land
 
the land from the placename
the placename from the geography
 
the geography from the ecology
the ecology from the faith
 
the faith from the prayer
the prayer from the soul
 
when it is a bad omen to have a soul
parted from its tongue?
 
 
 
 
 
ll.         The Adding
 
 
 
I peel back the thin layer of moss
revealing layer upon layer of words
 
that are no longer formed by voice or mouth;
syntax, strange to the man of today
 
which filters down through rock and bog
into the source of a loose-tongued river.
 
And I pour humbly, in on top
my small collection of words
 
pleading with the mountain to take possession of the syllables
because I hear each word amongst them
 
tormented, the need in them to be linked back
each creature of them calling to its elders
 
below: Stop! Come back to us!
Don’t go under the eclipse.
 
 
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère