Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill Poems

A martyr this morning, as ever, to cramps and pains
I organize myself to face the day.
I show a leg, put my shoulder to the wheel,
Daub paint on my eyelids and stick a couple of long
Hairpins in my desperate mane to hold it—
Too much trouble even to brush my hair.

I start on the spot on this heavy, sluggish,
Difficult, heartbreaking work, the reason no doubt
I was first put on the earth.
I take the same little plastic brush that I use
On good days to spread melted butter on pastry.
And gradually lay bare with insect patience,
Sifting away like an ant, with a hunter's eye, or

The sharp ear of a trespassing pig, alternately huffing
And puffing and effing and blinding: in the wet sand,
The painful lines of our horror, the boundaried frame of fear,
That lays us low so often in the bogs of despond.
You'd take it as first for a boat's skeleton, a kind
Of Sutton Hoo for our people, but soon its true shape appears:
Biblical Behemoth, the monster of all the old tales.
...

Ar dtúis ba ina cuid taibhrí amháin
a thagadh sé chun luí léi.

Ansan lá
go raibh sí in ainm is a bheith ag aoireacht ba
i gCuaisín na gCaorach, (bhí sí ag léamh
The Old Curiosity Shop le Charles Dickens
is gan aon chuimhneamh aici ar bha ná a leithéid)
cad a chonaic sí ach na muca mara ina scuaine
amuigh sa chuan. Do gheit a croí:
is ann a cheap sí gurb iad na beithígh go léir aici féin
a bhí tar éis titim le haill go hobann isteach sa tsruth.
Cheap sí go bhfaigheadh sí leathmharú sa bhaile dá bharr
is do léim suas le teann líonrith agus uamhain
sarar thuig sí cad a bhí suas.
B'shin é an chéad uair a thaibhsigh sé chúichi ar an láthair.

Ina dhiaidh sin
tháinig sé arís is arís chúichi.
Ar dtúis b'ait léi an t-éadach aisteach a bhí air:
an lúireach, na loirgneáin cnámh éisc, is an cafarr,
na lámhainní fada déanta de chraiceann bradán is scadán.
Ní raibh aon oidhre eile air, dar léi, d'fhéadfá a rá,
ach carachtar neamhdhaonna éigin ó Bh-scannán -
‘An Créatúir ón Lagún Gorm' nó fiú King Kong.
Ach nuair a bhain sé do an clogad a bhí ar a cheann
is chraith a mhoing bhreá ruainní anuas ar a ghualainn,
chonaic sí go soiléir ainsin gurbh fhear óg a bhí ann.

Ansan tháinig lá
gur chuir sé a cheann ina hucht.
Bhí na míolta móra ag búirthíl thíos fúthu faoi loch
is na muca mara ina dtáinte gléigeala mórthimpeall.
(Sa tráthnóna thiar
do chonaic daoine a bhí ar an gcnoc le ba iad.)
Is i dteanga éigin iasachta a thuig sí
cé nárbh fhéidir léi na focail a dhéanamh amach i gceart,
d'iarr sé uirthi a cheann a ghlanadh
is na míola a bhí ag crá an chinn air a chnagadh
lena hingne fada.

Do dhein sí amhlaidh.
Bhí shí ag portaireacht go bog faoina hanáil
is í á bhréagadh nuair a baineadh aisti an phreab
is gheit a croí uirthi; bhí dúlamán is duileascar cloch
ag fás i measc rútaí na gruaige aige.
Thuig sí láithreach cad a bhí suas
is nár mhaith an earra é. Ansan
nuair a bhraith sí barraí na gcluas aige thuig sí leis
nach ar Labhraidh Lorc amháin an scéal
a bhí na cluasa capaill.

Cé gur bhrúcht brat fuarallais trína craiceann amach
do bhain sí míotóg amháin nó dhó nó trí
as a cromán is ní dúirt sí faic.
Lean sí uirthi ar feadh an ama ag cíoradh a chinn,
aag crónán is ag portaireacht,
ag gabháilt de shuantraithe is de ghiotaí beaga amhrán,
á bhréagadh is á mhealladh de shíor chun suain.
Ansan nuair a bhraith sí faid osnaíle
ag teacht ina anáil,
do scaoil sí snaidhmeanna a haprúin
go cúramach is go mear.

is thug dos na bonnaibh é.
Rith sí ins na tréinte tríd an bhfaill
go tigh a muintire. Ar dtúis
is slaod gibirise amháin i dtaobh rútaí feamnaí
is cluasa capaill a d'eascair as a béal. Ar deireadh
nuair a tuigeadh le deacaireacht agus faoi dheoidh
do lucht an tí cad a bhí á rá aici, d'aithníodar láithreach
is ar an bpointe boise gurb é an t-each uisce é.
D'éiríodar is d'fháisc suas orthu a gcuid balcaiscí,
a bhfearas airm is a n-éide catha,
is ritheadar amach ina mbuíon armtha
ar tí mharaithe.

Bhí seans léi, a dúirt na héinne, ina dhiaidh san.
Bhí, agus gur dhóbair di - aon bharrthuisle amháin,
aon ghníomh ar bith ceataí is bhí sí ite aige,
scun scan, beo beathúch, cnámha agus uile.
Trí lá i ndiaidh na tubaiste
seans go mbeadh a hae, an dá scámhóig aici is na duáin
le piocadh suas acu ar bharra taoide.
B'shin an sórt ainmhí é.
B'fhíor dóibh, do thuig sí san.
Mar sin féin do luigh imeachtaí an lae úd
go trom uirthi.
Do shuigh sí síos ar fhaobhar na faille
lá i ndiaidh lae eile

is í ag cuimhneamh ar loinnir uaithne
na súl bhfiarsceabhach aige a d'fhéach uirthi le fonn
a bhí chomh simplí san is chomh glan, folláin,
ina shlí féin le hampla ocrais;
drithle rithimeach na ngéag donn
is conas a chaolaíodar ina riostaí cúnga
ag rí na láimhe aige
Thar aon ní eile do chuimhnigh sí ar mhatáin
iallaithe a choirp a bhí chomh haiclí
is chomh teann le bogha i bhfearas. An teannas
a bhí ann, mar a bheadh sprionga tochraiste
a bheadh ar tinneall i gcónaí
is réidh faoi bhráid a athscaoilte.
...

At first it was only in her dreams
That he came and lay with her.

On the day
She was supposed to be minding the cows
In Sheep Cove (she was reading
Dickens, The Old Curiosity Shop,
And cows were the last thing on her mind)
She saw the porpoises flocking out in the bay.
Her heart almost stopped.
She thought they were her cows, all of them
Fallen at once from the cliff to the water.
She thought she'd get a hammering at home
And she had jumped up in her agitation
Before she saw what the bodies were.
That was the first time he appeared to her there.

And after that
He came to her again and again.
At first his clothes seemed so strange to her:
The breastplate, the fishbone greaves and the casque,
The long gloves made from the skin of eels,
His whole style recalling
The sub-human creatures from B movies:
The Creature from Sheep Cove, or an Irish cousin of King Kong.
But when he took the helmet from his head
And his fine horse's mane loosened on his shoulders
She saw clearly that he was a young man.

Then came the day
He laid his head on her breast.
The sea-creatures were hooting below them on the water
And the porpoises in shining troops around them.
(Later in the evening
They were seen by people out after cows on the mountain.)
And in a foreign tongue she understood
Though she could not properly make out the words,
He asked her to comb his hair
And crush with her long nails
The creatures that were pestering his head.

She did what he asked.
She was humming softly under her breath
Soothing him, when she got the fright
That stopped her heart again: seaweed and rock dillisk
Were growing among the roots of his hair.
She guessed at once what was going on
And that it was bad news. Then
When she felt the tips of his ears she knew
That not only Labhraidh Loirc in the old story
Had ears like a horse's ears.

Yet although the cold sweat was running down her skin
She gave herself a pinch in the thigh
Or two, or three, and said nothing.
She went on combing his hair the whole time
Humming and murmuring
Lullabies and scraps of songs
To soothe him and beguile him into sleep
And then when she heard his breathing
Changing to sighs of a sleeper
She undid the strings of her apron
Gently and quickly

And she ran for it,
She made it up the cliffs in a flash
To the house of her people. At first,
All they could get from her was a streel of nonsense
About seaweed roots and horse's ears. At length,
When her people at home had laboured to make out
The meaning of what she was saying, they knew at once
Right on the spot that it was the water horse.
They rose up and put on their clothes,
Their battle-gear and took their weapons,
And out they went as an armed patrol
To find and kill him.

Afterwards they all said she was lucky.
She was, and it was a near thing; one slip,
One step awry and he'd have swallowed her,
Right down, live and kicking, blood and bones.
Three days after the event
They might have found her liver, a couple of lungs and kidneys
Picked up around the high-tide mark.
That was the sort of beast he was.
It was true for them, she knew it.
And yet she felt the story of that day
Lie heavy on her.
She'd sit there on the cliff edge
Day after day.

And she thought about the green gleam
In the strange eyes that had looked at her with desire,
That was as simple, clean, clear
In its own way as a hearty hunger;
The rhythmic shining of his brown limbs
And how they narrowed to slim wrists
And the shape of the hands.
More than all else she remembered the muscular
Weave of his body that was tense
And light as tightened bow. The spring
Wound up, alert, constantly
Ready to be released again.
...

Do tháinig bean an leasa
le Black & Decker,
do ghearr sí anuas mo chrann.
D'fhanas im óinseach ag féachaint uirthi
faid a bhearraigh sí na brainsí
ceann ar cheann.

Tháinig m'fhear céile abhaile tráthnóna.
Chonaic sé an crann.
Bhí an gomh dearg air,
ní nach ionadh. Dúirt sé
"Canathaobh nár stopais í?
Nó cad is dóigh léi?
Cad a cheapfadh sí
dá bhfaighinnse Black & Decker
is dul chun a tí
agus crann ansúd a bhaineas léi,
a ghearradh anuas sa ghairdín?"

Tháinig bean an leasa thar n-ais ar maidin.
Bhíos fós ag ithe mo bhricfeasta.
D'iarr sí orm cad dúirt m'fhear céile.
Dúrtsa léi cad dúirt sé,
go ndúirt sé cad is dóigh léi,
is cad a cheapfadh sí
dá bhfaigheadh sé súid Black & Decker
is dul chun a tí
is crann ansúd a bhaineas léi
a ghearradh anuas sa ghairdín.

"Ó," ar sise, "that's very interesting."
Bhí béim ar an very.
Bhí cling leis an -ing.
Do labhair sí ana-chiúin.

Bhuel, b'shin mo lá-sa,
pé ar bith sa tsaol é,
iontaithe bunoscionn.
Thit an tóin as mo bholg
is faoi mar a gheobhainn lascadh cic
nó leacadar sna baotháin
líon taom anbhainne isteach orm
a dhein chomh lag san mé
gurb ar éigin a bhí ardú na méire ionam
as san go ceann trí lá.

Murab ionann is an crann
a dh'fhan ann, slán.
...

I dtús mo shaoil do mheallais mé
i dtráth m'óige, trí mo bhoige.
Thuigis go maith
go bhféadfaí mo cheann a chasadh
le trácht ar chúirteanna aoldaite,
ar chodladh go socair i gcuilteanna
de chlúmh lachan,
ar lámhainní de chraiceann éisc.

Ansan d'imís ar bord loinge,
chuireas mo mhíle slán i do choinne.
Chuireas suas le bruíon is le bearradh
ó gach taobh ; bhí tráth ann
go bhféadfainn mo chairde a chomhaireamh
ar mhéireanta aon láimhe amháin,
ach ba chuma.

Thugais uait cúrsa an tsaoil
is d'fhillis abhaile.
Tháinig do long i dtír
ar mo leaba.
Chlúdaíos le mhil thú
is chonac go raibh do ghruaig
fachta liath is díreach.

Fós i mo chuimhní
tánn tú bachallach,
tá dhá chocán déag i do chúl buí
cas.
...

I was under your spell from the start:
I was young, I was soft,
and you well knew you could turn my head
with your talk about whitewashed courts
and big long sleeps on a duck-down bed
and gloves made out of the skins of fish.

When you sailed away
my goodbyes were the gulls in your wake.
I put up with rows and with blame
from every side; there was a time
when I could number my friends
on the fingers of one hand.

You sailed through life, you came back home,
your boat beached on my bed.
As I covered you all in honey,
I saw your hair had gone grey
and straight;
but in my memory the curls grew on,
twelve coils in the ripening
crop on your head.
...

A bhábóigín bhriste ins an tobar,
caite isteach ag leanbh ar bhogshodar
anuas le fánaidh, isteach faoi chótaí a mháthar.
Ghlac sé preab in uaigneas an chlapsolais
nuair a léim caipíní na bpúcaí peill chun a bhéil,
nuair a chrom na méaracáin a gceannaibh ina threo
is nuair a chuala sé uaill chiúin ón gceann cait ins an dair.
Ba dhóbair nó go dtitfeadh an t-anam beag as nuair a ghaibh
easóg thar bráid is pataire coinín aici ina béal,
na putóga ar sileadh leis ar fuaid an bhaill
is nuair a dh'eitil an sciathán leathair ins an spéir.

Theith sé go glórach is riamh ó shin
tánn tú mar fhinné síoraí ar an ghoin
ón tsaighead a bhuail a chluais; báite sa láib
t'fhiarshúil phlaisteach oscailte de ló
is d'oíche, chíonn tú an madra rua is a hál
ag teacht go bruac na féithe raithní taobh lena bpluais
is iad ag ól a sáith; tagann an broc chomh maith ann
is níonn a lapaí; sánn sé a shoc san uisce is lá
an phátrúin tagann na daoine is casann siad seacht n-uaire
ar deiseal; le gach casadh caitheann siad cloch san uisce.

Titeann na clocha beaga seo anuas ort.
Titeann, leis, na cnónna ón gcrann coill atá ar dheis
an tobair éireoir reamhar is feasach mar bhreac
beannaithe sa draoib. Tiocfaidh an spideog bhroinndearg
de mhuintir Shúilleabháin is lena heireabaillín
déanfaidh sí leacht meala de uiscí uachtair an tobair
is leacht fola den íochtar, fós ní bheidh corraí asat.
Taoi teanntaithe go síoraí ins an láib, do mhuineál tachtaithe
le sreanganna lobelia. Chím do mhílí ag stánadh orm
gan tlás as gach poll snámha, as gach lochán, Ophelia.
...

O little broken doll, dropped in the well,
thrown aside by a child, scampering downhill
to hide under the skirts of his mother!
In twilight's quiet he took sudden fright
as toadstool caps snatched at his tongue,
foxgloves crooked their fingers at him
and from the oak, he heard the owl's low call.
His little heart almost stopped when a weasel
went by, with a fat young rabbit in its jaws,
loose guts spilling over the grass while
a bat wing flicked across the evening sky.

He rushed away so noisily and ever since
you are a lasting witness to the fairy arrow
that stabbed his ear; stuck in the mud
your plastic eyes squinny open from morning
to night: you see the vixen and her brood
stealing up to lap the ferny swamphole
near their den, the badger loping to wash
his paws, snuff water with his snout. On
Pattern days people parade seven clockwise
rounds; at every turn, throwing in a stone.

Those small stones rain down on you.
The nuts from the hazel tree that grows
to the right of the well also drop down:
you will grow wiser than any blessed trout
in this ooze! The redbreasted robin
of the Sullivans will come to transform
the surface to honey with her quick tail,
churn the depths to blood, but you don't move.
Bemired, your neck strangled with lobelias,
I see your pallor staring starkly back at me
from every swimming hole, from every pool, Ophelia.
...

Taibhríodh dom in aois coinlíochta
i mo leaba chúng sa tsuanlios aíochta
go rabhas i halla mór ag rince
i measc slua mór de mo dhaoine muinteartha,
le prionsa dubh.

Timpeall is timpeall do ghaibh an válsa,
bhí míobhán ar mo cheann le háthas,
ba mhear é a shúil, bhí a fhéachaint fíochmhar,
bhí bua gach clis i lúth is in aicillíocht
ag an bprionsa dubh.

Ach do plabadh oscailte an doras sa tsuanlios,
do chling soithí níocháin, do lasadh soilse,
bhí bean rialta ramhar ag fógairt ‘Moladh le hÍosa'
is do shuíos síos i lár an tsúsa is do ghoileas
i ndiaidh mo phrionsa dhuibh.

A dhreach, a mharc ní dhearmhadfad choíche,
a scáth ard baolach a bhíodh liom sínte,
mo bhuachaill caol in éag do mhill mé,
mo rí, m'impire, mo thiarna,
mo phrionsa dubh.

Is do m'iníon taibhríodh in aois a naoi di
gur oscail doirse in óstán draíochta
is duine éagsúil ag gach seomra acu á hiarraidh
is mar a dual máthar di (a chonách orm a thóg í) roghnaíonn
is toghann an prionsa dubh.

Is a iníon bháin, tóg toise cruinn dó,
ní maith an earra é, níl sé iontaofa,
is dúnmharfóir é, is máistir pionsa,
is sár-rinceoir é, ach cá ngabhann an rince
ach trí thinte ifrinn leis an bprionsa dubh.

Cuirfear faoi ghlas tú i gcás gloine iata,
nó faoi mar a bheadh doras rothlánach ina mbeifeá greamaithe
gan cead isteach nó amach agat ach an suathadh síoraí
soir agus siar tré phóirsí an tsíce
má ligeann tú a cheann leis an bprionsa dubh.

Nó beir mar a bhíos-sa i néaróis sínte
ceithre bliana déag, is mé spíonta le pianta
faoi mar a thitfinn i dtobar ar chuma Ophelia
gan neach beo i mo ghaobhar, ná éinne a thuigfeadh
toisc gur thugas ró-ghean do mo phrionsa dubh.

Nó gur shiúlas amach ar an nduimhche oíche duibhré
is dar an Mháthair Mhór is dar déithe mo mhuintire
a bhraitheas i mo thimpeall, do thugas móid agus briathar
go dtabharfainn suas an ní ab ansa liom ach mé a shaoradh ón bpian seo -
cén cás ach dob é sin mo phrionsa dubh.

Mar dob é an bás é, ina lúi i luíochán
in íochtar m'anama, ins an bpaibhiliún
is íochtaraí i mo chroí, de shíor ar tí
mé a ídiú gan mhoill is a shá ins an duibheagán
mar sin é an saghas é, an prionsa dubh.

Mar sin, a mhaoineach, dein an ní a deir do chroí leat,
toisc gur gabhas-sa-tríd seo leis ná bíodh aon ró-imní ort.
Ní sháróidh an bás sinn, ach ní shaorfaidh choíche,
ní lú ná mar a aontóidh an saol seo le chéile
sinne, agus ár bprionsa dubh.
...