Celia de Fréine

Laethanta áirithe agus do lámh á sá
isteach sa chófra ar thóir cabáiste
thagtá ar chloigeann Alfredo Garcia.

Laethanta eile is tú i mbun dearnála
mheabhraítí duit duibheagán
as a bhféadfadh olc an domhain éalú.

Scaití agus cnaipe an oighinn á chasadh
chuimhníteá ar na sé mhilliún -
nocht bearrtha sa chithfholcadh.

Ach istoíche na cuirtíní tarraingthe
is an glas ar an doras
bhraiteá slán, tú féin is do chúram.

Ba chuma cá mhéad scéal scanrúil
a shleamhnaíodh isteach id chloigeann
níor taibhríodh duit an tromluí seo -

bhí cónaí ort i ndaonlathas,
tú féin is do chúram, faoi rialtas iontaofa
a chaomhnaíodh gach saoránach

i bhfad ó shaotharlanna fhir na seacbhuataisí.
...

There were days when you'd shove
your hand into a cupboard in search of a cabbage
and come upon the head of Alfredo Garcia

others when you'd thread a needle
and imagine you were darning a hole
out of which the evil of the world could escape

and times when you'd press a knob on the oven
and conjure the six million
naked, shorn in the shower.

But at night the curtains drawn,
the door locked and bolted
you felt safe, yourself and your care.

No matter how many horror stories
you sidled into your mind
you never imagined this nightmare -

you lived in a democracy, yourself
and your care, under an elected government,
who cherished each citizen

far from the laboratories of jackbooted men.
...

Bhí sí meallta leis an tír - tais ach tirim -
is leis na tithe lena dtinteáin is a gceol
cé go raibh ceol san fharraige
fuinneamh sna tonnta
an fheamainn choiréalach inchurtha
leis na meallta fraoigh
a bhí ag gobadh amach idir na carraigeacha
is leis an bhfeileastram dearg
a d'fhás ar thaobh an bhóthair
ar a bealach chun an bhaile.

Chuir na daoine fáilte roimpi
agus cé go raibh a fhios acu
gur fholaigh sí a clóca
i lochta nó i ngráinseach
gach uair a tháinig sí i dtír
níor deineadh iarracht é a bhaint di.
Agus gach uair a tháinig sí
bhain sí fúithi seal níos faide.
Bhí a fhios aici go dtiocfadh lá
a mbeadh uirthi rogha a dhéanamh -

d'fhéadfadh sí filleadh
fad is a bhí a fallaing aici.
Agus cé a bheadh ag iarraidh
bronntanas a mhilleadh?
...

She was attracted to the land -
damp though dry - and to the houses
with their hearths and music,
though there was music in the sea,
strength in the waves,
the coral weed every bit as beautiful
as the globs of heather
that sprouted among the rocks,
or the montbretia that lined the road
on her way to town.

The people made her welcome
and though they knew
that each time she came ashore
she hid her cloak
in a loft or granary
no one tried to take it from her.
Each time she stayed,
she stayed a little longer
knowing a day would come
when she'd have to make a choice -

she could always leave
as long as she had her mantle.
And who'd want to destroy a gift?
...

In ionad bláthanna a bhronnadh ar a bhean
agus é i mbun tochmhairc, d'fhrasaigh Risteard
bronntanais ar a máthair. I dtosach
tháinig na málaí plaisteacha, ansin na saic,
iad lán le glasraí a d'fhás sé féin is a athair.
Leasaithe go nádúrtha. Uiscithe faoi scáth
na hoíche i rith an triomaigh.
Turnapaí ar aon mhéid le do chloigeann.
Prátaí Rí Éadbhard as ar deineadh
na sceallóga ba shúmhaire. Cabáistí
sách leathan le ceathrairíní a cheilt.
Ní raibh bean Risteaird ag súil le ceathrairíní -
iníon a leanbh sise, í tugtha go mór
do fhrithbhualadh na glúine, ar nós a máthar.
...

Richard did not woo his woman with flowers -
he lavished gifts on her mother instead.
At first they arrived in plastic bags, then
came the sacks, all containing vegetables
grown by him and his father. Fertilised
by the real thing. Irrigated under cover
of dark during the drought. Turnips as big
as your head. King Edwards that made
the juiciest chips. Cabbages broad enough
to conceal quads. Richard's woman was not
expecting quads - her child was a girl,
much given to knee-jerks, like her mother.
...

Is í bandiabhal mór na foraoise í
mo thuathmháthair. Seasann sí fiche troigh
os cionn goirt bhiabhóige, cabáiste Dúitseach.

Dorcha a haghaidh, níos dorcha ná goirme
na spéire, áit a ngoileann réaltaí ar aibhneacha,
ar locha, is ar ghaothscáth mo chairr.

Mura mbeadh an oiread sin deifre orm,
dhruidfinn amach ar an ngualainn chrua
is d'fhanfainn ann go mbainfeadh sí aisti mé.

D'fhéadfaimis beirt toirc a fhiach san fhoraois
is istoíche d'fhanfaimis tirim
faoi chaipíní sonais na nuabheirthe.
...

My Clan Mother is the great she-devil
of the forest. She stands twenty feet
over fields of wild rhubarb, Dutch cabbage.

Her face is black, blacker than the blue
of night where stars shed tears into rivers,
lakes, onto the windscreen of my car.

If I weren't in such a hurry
I would pull over, wait for her
to pluck me from the hard shoulder.

Together we could hunt boar
in the forest and at night stay dry
beneath the cauls of newborn children.
...

Tá áthas ar Aingeal gur chuimhnigh sí ar a lapaí.
Agus is mór an áis di freisin, a culaith chait dhubh.
I dtosach bíonn imní uirthi eitilt róghar
don ghealach ar eagla go ndiúgfaí a cuid fola.
Is rud amháin é eitilt le linn taibhrimh -
ar an saol seo is gá iarracht níos déine a dhéanamh.

Dein dearmad ar mheáchan do choirp,
a deir sí, léi féin. Sín amach do ghéaga
ar nós curaidh céad mhéadar snámh brollaigh.
B'fhéidir gurb é seo an t-aon seans a gheobhas tú.
Ní theastaíonn uait fás suas i sluma,
fiche stór in airde. Gan chrainn. Gan jab.

Le héirí na gréine gabhann thar abhainn,
is tugann faoi deara dallóga liathdhearga
ag bolgadh as díonteach. Caith do shúil
thairis sin, a mholann di féin. Laistigh
stacaí leabhar, dealbha ón Oirthear.
Is ón urlár mailpe, croitheann a scáth chuici.
...

Angela is glad she remembered her flippers.
And her black catsuit comes in handy.
At first she is afraid to fly too close
to the moon in case she bleeds.
It's one thing flying in dreams.
In real life it takes a greater effort.

Ignore the weight of your body,
she tells herself. Arc your arms like
a hundred metre breaststroke champion.
This may be your only chance.
You don't want to grow up in a slum.
Twenty storeys high. No trees. No job.

Dawn breaks as she crosses the river.
She sees peach curtains billow
from a nearby penthouse.
Take a closer look, she urges.
Inside stacks of books. Oriental sculptures.
From the maple floor her shadow beckons.
...