Treasure Island

sheena blackhall

(18/8/1947 / Aberdeen)

Gliong Gliong: Gaelic Poems (Four) with Translations


Gaelic
1a TILLEADH
AN AOIGH NEO-THAITNEACH
Direach nuair smaoinich sinn
Gun robh e air a’ruigeadh
UISTE
Mar sùithe, a'seideadh
Sìos an luidheir

ENGLISH
1b RETURN
OF AN UNWANTED GUEST
Just when we thought
He’d gone
WHOOSH
Back he came
Like soot blown
Down the chimney


GAELIC
2a. PARANTAN
Ceannrùisgte agus cas rùisgte
Mise agus m’athair
Choisich sin gu sunntach
Air a’ mhointich
Ah! Leithid a dh’fuasgladh!

Dh’fuirich mo mhàthair aig an taigh
B’ fhearr leatha adan
Agus brogan, agus ballachan
Ah! Leithid a choibhroch!

ENGLISH
2b PARENTS
Bareheaded & barefoot
Father & I
Walked joyful
On the moor
Such liberation!

Mother stayed at home
Preferring hats
And shoes, & walls
Such limitation!


GAELIC
3a. SONAS
Anns a 'mhoìntich
Tha na h-eoin a' seinn
Beanntan arda
Gleanntan purpaidh
Chaneil mi glanadh
Chaneil mi nigh
Chaneil mi sgùradh
Chaneil mi sgabadh
Tha a chlann aig an taigh
Mise air a' mhÒintich
Sonas! I


ENGLISH
3b HAPPINESS
On the moor
Birds are singing
High mountains
Purple valleys
I’m not cleaning
I’m not washing
I’m not scrubbing
I’m not sweeping
The children are at the house
I myself am on the moor
Happiness!


GAELIC

4a. CHAN ESAN MO MHAC
Chan esan mo mhac
Is an duine trang
Am mac agamsa
Le dochasan mÒra mar skyscraper
Cha bhi e a 'grotadh
Aig cèarnan sràidean
Mar chlùd glacte
Air chruaidh-theud bhiorach


Chan esan mo mhac
Bidh mo mhac a' cadal
Le nighean a' baile-beag
Tha e mathasach agus subhach
Na leannanachd
Cha bhi e a' siÒlachadh
Mar chu ann an caol-sràid
Le siùrsachean salach a 'bhaile


Chan esan mo mhac
Tha e dubh, 's bÒidheach
Am mac agamsa
Chaneil aodann mar chlaigeann
Le sùilean

Mar dà pholl chadalach a’ spleucadh
Bho sluic craicinn

Chan esan mo mhac
Bidh a chùislean a' ruith
Am mac agamsa
Le fìon dearg, Ian spionnaidh
Chaneil iad sàth le agus sracte
Leis na fiaclan fuathasach geal
Aig an dràgon, heroin
Chan esan mo mhac.


ENGLISH
4b HE IS NOT MY SON
He is not my son
My son is a busy man
With prospects high as a skyscraper
He does not rot at street corners like a rag

He is not my son
My son sleeps
With a village girl
It is kind and joyful
Their lovemaking
He does not couple
Like a dog in an alley
With dirty city whores

He is not my son
He is dark and handsome my son
His face is not a skull
With eyes, two stagnant pools
Staring from hollows of skin

He is not my son
My son’s veins run
With the red wine of vigour
They are not stabbed and torn
By the terrible white teeth
Of the dragon, heroin
He is not my son

Submitted: Tuesday, January 07, 2014
Edited: Wednesday, January 08, 2014

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