Louis De Paor

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.
...

Níor tháinig do chaint leat fós,
ná níl aon chorrabhuais
ina thaobh san ort.
Cuireann briathra sna trithí tú,
is an modh ordaitheach,
ní mór ná go dtachtann le greann.
Dúisigh. Codail. Dein. Ná dein. Bí …

Tá do bhéarlagar féin agat,
réamhurlabhra a thuigfeadh dúramán
nó an teangeolaí féin le haimsir.
Straois. Strainc. Scread.
Gnúsacht. Meánfach. Tost
gur léir don uile a bhrí uilíoch.

Tán tú chun deiridh
de réir chairteacha na ndochtúirí,
na saineolaithe linbh leanbaí.
Ach má thugann tú leat,
mar is baolach go dtabharfaidh,
oiread focal is 'tá rialacha graiméar
i leabharlanna an Ghúim

ní déarfaidh tú aon ní
gur fiú aon ní in aon chor é
thar an méid a d'fhoghlaimís
in aragal na broinne,
poncaíocht do gháire droim ar ais,
díochlaonadh na fearthainne id dheoir.
...

You can't talk yet, and you're not
too put out about that.
Words send you into convulsions,
especially verbs - the Imperative Mood
is the funniest thing you've ever heard.
Wake up. Go asleep. Do. Don't. Be.

You have your own lingo
any fool could understand,
even a linguist, given time.
Grin. Yowl. Gurn.
Yawn. Grunt. Silence
that makes perfect
sense to everyone.

You're behind schedule
according to doctors' charts,
the childish child experts.
But if you learn, and I'm afraid you will,
as many words as there are rules of grammar
in the libraries of An Gúm

you won't say a blessed thing
worth anything more
than what you've already learned
in the womb's elocution room,
the punctuation of laughter back to front,
the declension of rain into tears.
...

Ní féidir é a bhogadh,
an braon fola a doirteadh
ó thaobh mo mháthar ionam,
a d'fhág starrfhiacail chlaon
im charball uachtair,
bollán tochais i ngort
mo mharana, oghamchloch
a bhodhraíonn m'aigne
lena haibítir bhalbh.

Cuirim ordóg ramhar
fé fhiacail an fheasa
is labhrann an gallán
as íochtar comhfheasa amach:
Cúl le cine, cúl le cine
mar is dual cine ded shórt,
focail chomh crua
le gráinne gainimhe
fé chaipín súile
atá iata chomh dlúth
le sliogán oisre.

Nuair a osclaíonn
scian an tsolais
a bhéal ar maidin,
tá fiacail ar sceabha
i ndrad mo mhic,
agus gléas chomh hard
le niamh an phéarla
ar a gháire neamhfhoirfe gan teimheal.
...

There's no denying
the blood that goes through me
from my mother's side,
leaving one snarled tooth
in the roof of my mouth,
an itching-post in the field
of my thoughts, an ogham stone
that shouts me down
with its unintelligible alphabet.

I put my swollen thumb
under the tooth of knowledge,
and the stone speaks up
from the underworld of my thoughts:
You were always a black sheep
like all belonging to you,
hard words like grains of sand
in the corner of an eyelid
shut tight as an oyster.

When a blade of light
prises it open,
there's a tooth askew
in my son's mouth.
It shines like a pearl
in his perfectly crooked smile.
...

Iarnród

Sa chiúnas roimh theacht na traenach
seasann sí ar an ardán lom,
a meabhair chomh briosc le poirceallán,
néaróga chomh teann le dorn iata.

I mála ascaille
lena giúirléidí cumhra,
tá cuimhní fada
ar shamhraití gan scamall,
oícheanta lán de challán aonaigh,
de cheolta Wurlitzer
ag tonnadh manaí grá ar a cluasa,
an t-aer ramhar le toit,
le boladh íle is allais,
aimsir bhreicneach
nuair a shiúladh sí an tsráid,
mus feamainne ar a craiceann órtha,
chomh seang le horláiste,
chomh drithleach
le haingeal tite.

Díríonn sí a drom
is critheann an domhan féna sála
nuair a bhrúnn an traein dorn iarainn
le gíoscán fiacal
isteach i ngabhal an stáisiúin.

I mbaile nua fan na slí, tá fear
a chíorfaidh an liath dá gruaig,
a choimeádfaidh spadántacht na mblian
óna meabhair is óna com,
fear eile fós a chiúineoidh
greadadh glórach a croí.
...

Down the Line

In the silence before the train,
she stands on the unsheltered platform,
her mind brittle as porcelain,
nerves tight as a fist.

In a shoulderbag,
amongst all her scented things,
there are memories
of unclouded summers,
of nights loud with fairground noise,
a jukebox throbbing
its catchcries of love,
the air heavy with cigarette smoke,
the smell of oil and sweat,
freckled weather
when she walked the prom,
a tang of seaweed on her skin,
slim as an hourglass,
bright as a fallen angel.

She straightens her back
and the world moves under her
as the train grinds its teeth
and fists its way
into the station.

In another town down the line
there's a man
who'll comb the grey from her hair,
who'll keep the heaviness of time
from her mind, and from her waist,
a man she's never met
who'll slow her violent heartbeat.
...

Nuair a bhíonn tú as baile
géaraíonn bainne úr sa chuisneoir,
dónn tósta uaidh féin,
balbhaíonn an guthán
is cailltear fear an phoist
ar a shlí chun an tí.

Cruinníonn Mormanaigh is Finnéithe Jehovah,
an minister is an sagart paróiste,
bean Avon is fear Amway
le chéile ar lic an dorais
chun m'anam damanta a dhamnú.
Ní fhéadfadh Batman mé a shlánú.

Plódaíonn sceimhlitheoirí is murdaróirí,
maoir tráchta is cigirí cánach sa chlós
ag pleancadh ar an bhfuinneog iata,
ag sceitheadh mo rún os ard
leis na comharsain chúiléistitheacha;
ní chuireann mo pheacaí coiriúla
ná mo choireanna peacúla
aon iontas ar éinne.

Sa doircheacht mheata bhalbh istigh
fáiscim do chumhracht
as bráillín fhuar,
cuardaím camán Chúchulainn
fén dtocht riastrach
cnapánach.
...

When you're not here,
milk turns sour in the fridge,
the toaster burns the last piece
of bread deliberately,
the phone is struck dumb,
and the postman dies
on his way to the house.

Mormons and Jehovah's Witnesses,
the minister and the parish priest,
the Avon lady and the Amway man
gang outside my door
to lambast my blasted soul.
Even Batman couldn't save me.

Terrorists and murderers,
clampers and tax inspectors
crowd the backyard,
pounding on locked windows,
yelling my secrets at the top of their voices
for the benefit of eavesdropping neighbours;
my criminal sins and sinful crimes
are a surprise to no one.

In the cowering dumb dark inside,
I hug your scent from cold sheets;
I reach for Cúchulainn's hurley
under the battlefurious
lumpy mattress.
...

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.
...