Derry O’Sullivan

Uaidh seo domhan dubh thú,

Na tíortha, na haigéin ar fuaid fad a chéile
Iairiglifí gan chloch Rosetta phóca againn chucu
Pirimidí, ilstóraigh, ard eaglaisí - cá bhfuilid?
Burla iad ar asal beag dubh

Ag iníor feadh bóithrín conaire matamaiticiúla!

Uaireanta crochtar eadrainn cuirtín meitéar;
Ansin bíonn eagla orainn go scriosfaí ár saitilít
Faoin gcith phíosaí cosmais ar saorthitim trín spás!

Anuraidh, ar chúrsa timpeall Véinis lorgaíomar thu

Le fada in aisce go bhfaca thú ar preabadh trasna scáileáin:
Blip!
...

From up here you are a black world,

Countries, oceans all higgledy-piggledy,

Hieroglyphics for which we lack a pocket Rosetta Stone.
Pyramids, skyscrapers, cathedrals - where are they?
They are a bundle on a tiny black donkey

Grazing a boreen on a mathematical path!

At times a curtain of meteors is hung between us;

Then, we are terrified our satellite will be smashed

Under a shower of cosmic boulders free-falling through space!

Last year, as we circled Venus we sought you in vain
Until I spotted you crossing our screen:

A blip!
...

Oíche Nollag phréachta,
Bean ag iompar naí,
A chic mar phiscín cráite,
I sac siopa Monoprix.

Oíche chiúin i mbeithilín
Géimneach bhó albastair,
Máthair, asal, lao, siúinéir
Ag meangadh roimh naí plástair.

Fear siúil ag dreapadh fuílligh
Mar a bhfeiceann sac ag speachadh,
Ag gol ar charn farasbairr
Amhail beach i gcoirceog sheaca.

Bolgann caintic Nollag
Beithil bhréagáin Íosagáin;
Faoi shúile bacaigh chabhrach
Saolaíonn mála áilleagán.

Fear siúil ar shliogáin uibhe,
Naí bruscair ar a ucht,
I mbindealáin a ghiobail,
Ag rith ón gcarn nocht.

Reonn Oíche Chiúin ar bheola,
Gabhann pobal Dé chun luí,
Sa ghaoth ag damhsa romhainne
Mála plaisteach Monoprix.
...

You were born on Christmas Eve,
Swaddled in a supermarket carryall

And laid to rest on the urban rubbish-tip.
That day your town

Had bats in the belfry
Where once hungry tramps were locked up
To ring for worship.

There, among gargoyles waiting

To sing with Spring rains,
They swung the iron tongues

Too heavy for body,

Summoning, far under their dancing feet,
Princes of State and Church
To kneel by the fatherless baby image Laid in straw.

Duty done, the priest filled their scrip.
Now the tramp, still bearing
The ancient name of "bellringer",
Winters on refuse-heaps

Swinging the lead of memory

Or watching frozen gargoyles
On the Christmas dole.

One of them found you

Kicking blue under your first blanket

Of snow - it was the last straw -

And his tongue brought Midnight Mass-goers
Scrambling up the ice-solid

Disposables, plastics, rubble,

To kneel with him and you

Who seemed to have dropped

From the cold stars.

The ambulance took you to safety.

Your saviour retumed to the anonymity

Of a bellringer searching for refuse
While, on the distant cathedral,
Glaring at the heaven's snow-job,
Gargoyles choked on ice

Waited for the sun to spew
The season from their mouths.
...

do Nuala McCarthy
Saolaíodh id bhás thú
is cóiríodh do ghéaga gorma
ar chróchar beo do mháthar
sreang an imleacáin slán eadraibh
amhail line ghutháin as ord.
Dúirt an sagart go rabhais ródhéanach
don uisce baiste rónaofa
a d'éirigh i Loch Bó Finne
is a ghlanadh fíréin Bheanntraí.
Gearradh uaithi thú
is filleadh thú gan ní
i bpáipéar Réalt an Deiscirt
cinnlínte faoin gCogadh Domhanda le do bhéal.
Deineadh comhrainn duit de bhosca oráistí
is mar requiem d'éist do mháthair
le casúireacht amuigh sa phasáiste
is an bhanaltra á rá léi
go raghfá gan stró go Liombó.
Amach as Ospidéal na Trócaire
d'iompair an garraíodóir faoina ascaill thú
i dtafann gadhar de shocraid
go gort neantógach
ar an dtugtar fós an Coiníneach.
Is ann a cuireadh thú
gan phaidir, gan chloch, gan chrois
i bpoll éadoimhin i dteannta
míle marbhghin gan ainm
gan de chuairteoirí chugat ach na madraí ocracha.
Inniu, daichead bliain níos faide anall,
léas i Réalt an Deiscirt
nach gcreideann diagairí a thuilleadh
gur ann do Liombó.
Ach geallaimse duit, a dheartháirín
nach bhfaca éinne dath do shúl
nach gcreidfead choíche iontu arís:
tá Liombó ann chomh cinnte is atá Loch Bó Finne
agus is ann ó shin a mhaireann do mhathair,
a smaointe amhail neantóga á dó,
gach nuachtán ina leabhar urnaí,
ag éisteacht le leanaí neamhnite
i dtafann tráthnóna na madraí.
...

for Nuala McCarthy
You were born dead
and your blue limbs were folded
on the living bier of your mother
the umbilical cord unbroken between you
like an out-of-service phone line.
The priest said it was too late
for the blessed baptismal water
that arose from Lough Bofinne
and cleansed the elect of Bantry.
So you were cut from her
and wrapped, unwashed,
in a copy of The Southern Star,
a headline about the War across your mouth.
An orange box would serve as coffin
and, as requiem, your mother listened
to hammering out in the hallway,
and the nurse saying to her
that you'd make Limbo without any trouble.
Out of the Mercy Hospital
the gardener carried you under his arm
with barking of dogs for a funeral oration
to a nettle-covered field
that they still call the little churchyard.
You were buried there
without cross or prayer
your grave a shallow hole;
one of a thousand without names
with only the hungry dogs for visitors.
Today, forty years on
I read in The Southern Star -
theologians have stopped believing
in Limbo.
But I'm telling you, little brother
whose eyes never opened
that I've stopped believing in them.
For Limbo is as real as Lough Bofinne:
Limbo is the place your mother never left,
where her thoughts lash her like nettles
and The Southern Star in her lap is an unread breviary;
where she strains to hear the names of nameless children
in the barking of dogs, each and every afternoon.
...

do Johnny Granville
Sháigh ár ndúiche, ón Daingean siar thar an nGráig,
A teanga chloiche dóite amach
Faoi Cheann Sléibhe a scriosann na leachtaigh.
Thall ,frámaithe ina mhacasamhail shnasta,
Ofrálann Íosa a chroí páipéir ag dó
Os ár gceann ar an raca,
Agus Rí an Rac lena "Chroí Adhmaid"
I réim ar thonnta Raidió Éireann;
Tarraingthe óna bábóga, chuir Cáit cluas uirthi féin
Agus chroch suas an t-amhrán:
Idir na fiacla diúil mantacha
Ghéill a teanga féin,
Teanga ríthe na hÉireann,
Do theanga an Rí
A sháigh í féin idir a beola
Ag lorg macasamhla
Dá cruthú craobhscaoilte -
Bíodh nach raibh focal aici
De Bhéarla an Rí
Le caitheamh chuig an madra.
Labhair a Daideo trína fhiacla mantacha fhéin
Faoin bpraiseach theanga
Agus faoi Chúchulainn, glan i gcoinne thonnta an aeir.

Abhus, i bPáras,
Ag seasamh le beár Johnny Granville faoin Sacré Coeur,
Trí theanga buailte isteach agam le pluc na dáiríreachta,
Mé oidhre ar Íosa,
Ag ofráil croí adhmaid Cháit
Iompaithe go páipéar anseo.
...

for Johnny Granville
Our country from Dingle to the Graig
Stuck out its igneous tongue
At Slea Head erasing liquids
There, Jesus,
Framed in glossed reproduction,
Offered his burning paper heart
Over us on the settle,
While the Rock King's "Wooden Heart"
Ruled the Radio Éireann's waves;
Disturbed from her dolls she listened
And began to sing:
Through gapped milk teeth
The King's tongue jostled hers,
Once used to Irish kings,
Pushed open her lips to reproduce
His broadcast wireless creation
And yet she said not a word
Of the King's English
To peg at a dog!
Her grandfather muttered away
About a banjaxed tongue
And Cuchulainn, dead against the airwaves.

Here, over Johnny's bar,
Beneath the Sacré Coeur,
Three knackered tongues in cheek,
No better off than Jesus,
I offer her Wooden Heart,
Become paper too.
...

do Pat McGuinness is Joe O'Reilly ag an Irish World Heritage Centre, Manchúin
Arbh é mise nár ghoil
Ag sochraid m'athar
Ach gur dhóbair dom
Dhá ráithe dá héis
Éag dá chumha?

Nó mise a ghearr
Imleacán a gharmhic
Seachtain agus lá a adhlactha,
Mo charbhat dubh caointe
Ag luascadh mar thúiseán
Os cionn an naí nuabheirthe?
Ar stán na banaltraí
Ar straidhp chré a chónra
Ar ghualainn mo sheaicéid?
Níor thúisce tuirlingt ón eitleán
Ná siúd ar an gclinic mé
Gléasta chun báis
Ag féile na breithe!

Anallód,
Níor chré a d'iompair m'athair
Ach mise ar a shlinneáin
Mar ba Tarzan beag mé ar eilifint
Ag aonach Bheanntraí!

Caithim siar mo cheann,
Beag beann ar na coisithe -
Nárbh airde mé tráth ná a dTúr Eiffel! -

Nach cuma liom an mór is fiú,
An "comme il faut",
An t-ionadh ar bhéal gendarme?
Caithim siar mo bheola,
Líonaim mo scamhóga
De ghaoth na Séine
Agus
Béicim, béicim, béicim
In ard mo ghutha,
Mé Tiarna na dufaire
Ar deoraíocht
Ach ag craobhscaoileadh
A athghabhála ar ríocht eilifinte
Dá gcloisim a sodar cianda,
A trumpadóireacht cheana
Ag druidim liom thar na tonnta.
...

to Lorna Griffiths and Jennifer Dufiancatel, at 'Pause Café', Paris
Why was I dry-eyed
The day I buried Dad
But two seasons later
I almost died
Grieving him?

A week after the burial
Did not I cut his grandson's umbilical,
As I still wore my black mourning tie
Swinging like a thurible
Over my newborn child?
Did the nurses look askance at
The clay stain left by his coffin
On the shoulder of my jacket?
I stepped off the Cork plane at Charles de Gaulle
And sped to the maternity,
Still dressed for death
At the feast of birth!

Long ago,
Dad was not carrying packed earth
But me on his shoulders,
Where I rode like a tiny Tarzan on an elephant
Through the bulls, stallions and wethers
At Bantry Fair by the cloudy Atlantic.

I throw back my head,
Heedless of the strolling Parisians -
Long ago was I not taller than their Eiffel Tower?

Not giving a toss for their social niceties,
Or their "comme il faut",
Or the gaping gendarmes
I bare my teeth,
I fill my lungs
With the breezes from the Seine
And
I roar, I roar, I roar
At my highest pitch,
I am Lord of the jungle in exile
But broadcasting
My remounting to an elephant's realm
Whose distant charge I hear,
Already trumpeting
His way over the Atlantic
To join me.
...