SAMPLA: An fuíoll feá / Wood cuttings 1 Lúnasa 2017

AN FUÍOLL FEÁ

Cual connaidh an gheimhridh,
an fuíoll feá ar fad á láimhseáil
á gcarnadh i gcoinne na binne
le toise súl don sorn ar ball,
ach de réir a dtoisí féin go fóill
á socrú mar a oireann, ár n-ál.

A meá, a snoí, a luí, a gcineál,
beith, iúr, uath, fuinseog,
scafaire na páile ag guailleáil
slatairí craoibhe ar an gcosán,
cuirfear srian lena mhianach
lasrach sa dóiteán fós is baol.

Gach crann dá maireann, an
dúil uile ag scairteadh sa ghála,
an choill á scrios, an crios fothaine,
scáth na reilige féin
ina sceacha i mbéal bearnan
is an tréad buile ag satailt tríd.

Mo lom géar, is gan déanta
lem shaol ach crainn a chur
le hais claí teorann, dearcán
ar dhearcán, nuair is aibítir
iomlán is gá a athchur ón síol,
ón ngas aníos, dán fós ar dhán.

WOOD CUTTINGS

A load of winter firewood,
each wood cutting handled
and piled against the gable-end
with a measured eye to the stove later
but first with an eye to stack them
as they fit together, our brood.

Their weight and cut, how they lie, their species,
beech, yew, whitethorn, ash –
lithe lad of the ditch
jostling with saplings on the path,
his fiery ways soon to be tempered
in the flames, I’m afraid.

Every tree alive, all life
shouts out in the gale,
the woods being cleared, the shelter
belt, the graveyard shade itself
are all mere bushes now in the mouth of the gap,
as the mad herd thunders its way through.

I’m cut to the quick, knowing my life adds up to nothing
but trees planted near
a boundary ditch, acorn
by acorn, when a whole new alphabet
must be resown from seed,
from the stem rising, poem after poem.

Aistrithe go Béarla ag Gabriel Rosenstock.

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