Poem
Louis De Paor
End of the Line
It won’t do you anymore,the slit skintight dress
that measured in your eyes only
the change in your girlish figure
to its full womansize,
it won’t do you anymore.
A light breeze plays with its empty shape
on the loose clothesline outside,
finding curves and straight lines
that have nothing to do
with your treacherous body
since it turned insideout against you,
when the secret hollow under your waist
split like a wishbone.
The long dress
laps at your swollen calves
and you’re short of breath
in the unusual heat;
you open the top button of your blouse
as if there was a mouth at your breast
sucking the good from the air,
devouring your share of oxygen.
You drink water
as though it’s your element
and you’d think nothing of inhaling honey
through your wide-open pores;
your attention is fickle as a goldfish
as he forgets the wonders of his glazed world
with every flick of his tail.
Every time you move,
you forget, I think, I’m there,
as you swim through the dull kitchen air
like there were barrels of oil
in your way. And that swan-like body
in my head to which my heart
gave in forever and a day,
you won’t put it on anymore,
the tyranny of my eyes
that held your growing body
tight as the ties of marriage,
it won’t do you anymore,
you won’t put it on again.
© Translation: 2005, Louis de Paor
From: Clapping in the Cemetery
Publisher: Cló Iar-Chonnachta, Indreabhán, 2005
From: Clapping in the Cemetery
Publisher: Cló Iar-Chonnachta, Indreabhán, 2005
Deireadh na Líne
Deireadh na Líne
Ní raghaidh sé ort níos mó,an gúna scoilte dlúthlecraiceann
a bheachtaigh, dar leat,
aistriú do cholainne néata
go dtí a cló cruinn lánbhaineann;
ní raghaidh sé ort níos mó.
Líonann an leoithne a chruth tréigthe
ar an líne scaoilte lasmuigh,
aimsíonn cuair agus ingir
ná baineann led chabhail tréasach níos mó
ó d’iompaigh isteach is amach id choinne
nuair a scar mar a bheadh cnáimhín súgach éin
cuas na gcnámh féd choim.
Tá sciorta fada fairsing
ag slaparnach led cholpaí ata
is giorranáil sa teas neamhchoiteann ort;
scaoileann tú cnaipe in uachtar do bhlúis
mar a bheadh béal úr in aice do chín
ag diúl an mhaith ón aer máguaird,
ag alpadh do chandam ocsaigine.
Ólann tú uisce
amhail is gurb shin é anois
do dhúil is gur bheag leat
mil a shú tré phóireanna leata do chnis;
tá t’aire chomh caol le hinchinn éisc órga
a dhearmadann iontais a chruinne gloine
le gach buille dá eireaball.
Le gach cor de chois is láimh,
dearmadann tú, is dóigh liom,
gur ann dom, ag snámh leat
tré leamhaer na cisteanach
mar a bheadh bairillí ola
sa tslí ort. Is an corp mar ghéis
im cheann dar thug mo chroí
a ghean síoraí, ní chuirfidh tú
ort níos mó, aintiarnas mo shúl
a leag crios caol crua ar do ghéaga móra,
chomh dlúth le nasc is cuing an phósta,
ní chuirfidh tú ort arís,
ní ligfidh tú ort níos mó.
© 2005, Louis De Paor
From: Ag Greadadh Bas sa Reilg
Publisher: Cló Iar-Chonnachta, Indreabhán
From: Ag Greadadh Bas sa Reilg
Publisher: Cló Iar-Chonnachta, Indreabhán
Poems
Poems of Louis De Paor
Close
End of the Line
It won’t do you anymore,the slit skintight dress
that measured in your eyes only
the change in your girlish figure
to its full womansize,
it won’t do you anymore.
A light breeze plays with its empty shape
on the loose clothesline outside,
finding curves and straight lines
that have nothing to do
with your treacherous body
since it turned insideout against you,
when the secret hollow under your waist
split like a wishbone.
The long dress
laps at your swollen calves
and you’re short of breath
in the unusual heat;
you open the top button of your blouse
as if there was a mouth at your breast
sucking the good from the air,
devouring your share of oxygen.
You drink water
as though it’s your element
and you’d think nothing of inhaling honey
through your wide-open pores;
your attention is fickle as a goldfish
as he forgets the wonders of his glazed world
with every flick of his tail.
Every time you move,
you forget, I think, I’m there,
as you swim through the dull kitchen air
like there were barrels of oil
in your way. And that swan-like body
in my head to which my heart
gave in forever and a day,
you won’t put it on anymore,
the tyranny of my eyes
that held your growing body
tight as the ties of marriage,
it won’t do you anymore,
you won’t put it on again.
© 2005, Louis de Paor
From: Clapping in the Cemetery
Publisher: 2005, Cló Iar-Chonnachta, Indreabhán
From: Clapping in the Cemetery
Publisher: 2005, Cló Iar-Chonnachta, Indreabhán
End of the Line
It won’t do you anymore,the slit skintight dress
that measured in your eyes only
the change in your girlish figure
to its full womansize,
it won’t do you anymore.
A light breeze plays with its empty shape
on the loose clothesline outside,
finding curves and straight lines
that have nothing to do
with your treacherous body
since it turned insideout against you,
when the secret hollow under your waist
split like a wishbone.
The long dress
laps at your swollen calves
and you’re short of breath
in the unusual heat;
you open the top button of your blouse
as if there was a mouth at your breast
sucking the good from the air,
devouring your share of oxygen.
You drink water
as though it’s your element
and you’d think nothing of inhaling honey
through your wide-open pores;
your attention is fickle as a goldfish
as he forgets the wonders of his glazed world
with every flick of his tail.
Every time you move,
you forget, I think, I’m there,
as you swim through the dull kitchen air
like there were barrels of oil
in your way. And that swan-like body
in my head to which my heart
gave in forever and a day,
you won’t put it on anymore,
the tyranny of my eyes
that held your growing body
tight as the ties of marriage,
it won’t do you anymore,
you won’t put it on again.
© 2005, Louis de Paor
From: Clapping in the Cemetery
Publisher: 2005, Cló Iar-Chonnachta, Indreabhán
From: Clapping in the Cemetery
Publisher: 2005, Cló Iar-Chonnachta, Indreabhán
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