The Other Kingdoms

Ron Rosenstock

The Other Kingdoms

Mary Oliver

Consider the other kingdoms.  The
trees, for example, with their mellow-sounding
titles: oak, aspen, willow.
Or the snow, for which the peoples of the north
have dozens of words to describe its
different arrivals.  Or the creatures, with their
thick fur, their shy and wordless gaze.  Their
infallible sense of what their lives
are meant to be.  Thus the world
grows rich, grows wild, and you too,
grow rich, grow sweetly wild, as you too
were born to be.

Na Ríochtaí Eile

Meabhraigh na ríochtaí eile. Na crainn
cuir i gcás, agus a dteidil
shéimhe: an dair, an crann creathach, an tsaileach.
Nó an sneachta, a bhfuil ainmneacha gan áireamh
ag pobail an tuaiscirt chun cur síos
ar a theacht. Nó na hainmhithe, gona gclúmh
tiubh, an stánadh cúthail balbh sin. An tuiscint
chruinn atá acu don saol is mar is ceart
é a chaitheamh. Is mar sin a éiríonn an domhan
saibhir, fiáin, agus  tusa, leis,
ag éirí saibhir ionat féin, deas fiáin, de réir do
dhúchais.

White Owl/ Ulchabhán Bán.... Mary Oliver

White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field

Coming down out of the freezing sky
with its depths of light,
like an angel, or a Buddha with wings,
it was beautiful, and accurate,
striking the snow and whatever was there
with a force that left the imprint
of the tips of its wings — five feet apart —
and the grabbing thrust of its feet,
and the indentation of what had been running
through the white valleys of the snow —
and then it rose, gracefully,
and flew back to the frozen marshes
to lurk there, like a little lighthouse,
in the blue shadows —
so I thought:
maybe death isn't darkness, after all,
but so much light wrapping itself around us —
as soft as feathers —
that we are instantly weary of looking, and looking,
and shut our eyes, not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river that is without the least dapple or shadow,
that is nothing but light — scalding, aortal light —
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.
 

~ Mary Oliver ~

(House of Light)

Eitlíonn Ulchabhán Bán Isteach Sa Ghort is Amach Arís

Ag teacht anuas ón spéir reoite
As duibheagán solais,
Mar aingeal, nó mar Bhúda sciathánach,
B’álainn é agus ba chruinn,
An sneachta á bhualadh aige is pé ní a bhí ann
Le fórsa a d’fhág cló
Bharr a chuid sciathán – cúig troithe óna chéile –
agus snapadh an chroibh,
móide rianú an ní a bhí ag rith
trí ghleanntáin bhána an tsneachta –
is in airde leis ansin go grástúil
gur eitil ar ais go dtí an riasc reoite,
faoi scáth, mar a bheadh tigín solais ann,
sna scáileanna gorma –
is seo ag machnamh mé:
samhlaigh nach dorchadas é an bás tar éis an tsaoil
ach an solas ár gclúdach ar fad –
chomh bog le clúmh –
agus i bpreab na súl is tinn den fhéachaint sinn
 dúnaimid na súile, ní gan alltacht é,
is ligimid dúinn féin seoladh
ar thréshoilseacht míoca
go dtí an abhainn sin nach bhfuil breactha ag scáth,
nach bhfuil inti ach solas – solas dearg te aortach –
ina nitear sinn arís is arís eile
as ár gcnámha

Almost a Conversation/Comhrá Nach Mór

Almost a Conversation

I have not really, not yet, talked with otter
about his life.

He has so many teeth, he has trouble
with vowels.

Wherefore our understanding
is all body expression —

he swims like the sleekest fish,
he dives and exhales and lifts a trail of bubbles.
Little by little he trusts my eyes
and my curious body sitting on the shore.

Sometimes he comes close.
I admire his whiskers
and his dark fur which I would rather die than wear.

He has no words, still what he tells about his life
is clear.
He does not own a computer.
He imagines the river will last forever.
He does not envy the dry house I live in.
He does not wonder who or what it is that I worship.
He wonders, morning after morning, that the river
is so cold and fresh and alive, and still
I don't jump in.
 

~ Mary Oliver ~

(Evidence)  

 

Comhrá Nach Mór

Níor labhair mé i gceart fós le Dobharchú
 faoi féin agus a shaol.

Tá an oiread sin fiacla aige, bíonn deacrachtaí
aige le gutaí.

Dá réir sin is ar bhonn gothaí agus geáitsí
an tuiscint atá eadrainn –

snámhann sé mar iasc sleamhain,
tumann sé, easanálaíonn, fágann marbhshruth súilíní ina dhiaidh.
De réir a chéile glacann sé le mo shúile ag stánadh air
agus le mo cholainn aisteach is mé im' shuí ar an mbruach.

Uaireanta tagann sé gar dom.
Is aoibhinn liom na féasóga aige
agus an fionnadh dorcha sin nach gcaithfinnse ar ór ná ar airgead.

Níl siolla uaidh, ach is léir cad tá á rá aige
faoin shaol.
Níl ríomhaire aige.
Is dóigh leis go mairfidh an abhainn go brách.
Níl sé in éad leis an teach tirim seo agamsa.
Is cuma sa riach leis cé nó cad atá mar dhia agamsa.
Bíonn iontas air, maidin i ndiaidh maidine, an abhainn
a bheith chomh fuar sin, chomh húr chomh beo, is fós
nach léimfinnse inti.

 

Géanna Sneachta/ Snow Geese

Snow Geese

Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last!
What a task
to ask

of anything, or anyone,

yet it is ours,
and not by the century or the year, but by the hours.

One fall day I heard
above me, and above the sting of the wind, a sound
I did not know, and my look shot upward; it was

a flock of snow geese, winging it
faster than the ones we usually see,
and, being the color of snow, catching the sun

so they were, in part at least, golden.  I

held my breath
as we do
sometimes
to stop time
when something wonderful
has touched us

as with a match,
which is lit, and bright,
but does not hurt
in the common way,

but delightfully,
as if delight
were the most serious thing
you ever felt.

The geese
flew on,
I have never seen them again.

Maybe I will, someday, somewhere.
Maybe I won't.
It doesn't matter.
What matters
is that, when I saw them,
I saw them
as through the veil, secretly, joyfully, clearly.

~ Mary Oliver ~

(Why I Wake Early)

 

Géanna Sneachta

Aoibhinn taitneamh a thabhairt don ní álainn nach mairfidh!

A leithéid de chúram
 bheith

Ar aon ní, ar éinne,

Sé ár gcúram é ar a shon san
agus ní in aghaidh an chéid ná in aghaidh na bliana, ach in aghaidh na huaire é.

Tharla lá sa bhfómhar gur chuala
os mo chionn in airde agus os cionn ghoimh na gaoithe, fuaim
nár aithníos, agus d’fhéachas in airde láithreach; ealta

Géanna sneachta a bhí ann, níos tapúla
ná na géanna a fheicimid de ghnáth,
Agus toisc iad a bheith ar dhath an tsneachta, an ghrian gafa acu,

Bhíodar dá réir sin, órbhreactha. Choinníos

M’anáil istigh
mar a dheinimid
uaireanta
chun an t-am a stopadh
nuair a tharlaíonn
rud éigin iontach dúinn

Ar nós cipín solais,
a lastar, is atá geal
ach nach ngortaíonn sinn
sa ghnáthshlí,

Ach go haoibhinn,
faoi mar ba é an t-aoibhneas
an rud is dáiríre
a bhraithis riamh.

D’eitil
 na géanna leo.
Ní fhaca ó shin iad.


B’fhéidir go bhfeicfinn, lá éigin, áit éigin iad.
B’fhéidir nach bhfeicfinn.
Is cuma.
Sé is tábhachtaí ná: nuair a chonac iad
ba trí chaille é, faoi rún, faoi aoibhneas, soiléir.
 

Teagasc Deireanach an Bhúda/ The Buddha's Last Instruction

The Buddha’s Last Instruction

“Make of yourself a light,”
said the Buddha,
before he died.
I think of this every morning
as the east begins
to tear off its many clouds
of darkness, to send up the first
signal – a white fan
streaked with pink and violet,
even green.
An old man, he lay down
between two sala trees,
and he might have said anything,
knowing it was his final hour.
The light burns upward,
it thickens and settles over the fields.
Around him, the villagers gathered
and stretched forward to listen.
Even before the sun itself
hangs, disattached, in the blue air,
I am touched everywhere
by its ocean of yellow waves.
No doubt he thought of everything
that had happened in his difficult life.
And then I feel the sun itself
as it blazes over the hills,
like a million flowers on fire –
clearly I’m not needed,
yet I feel myself turning
into something of inexplicable value.
Slowly, beneath the branches,
he raised his head.
He looked into the faces of that frightened crowd.

~ Mary Oliver ~

(House of Light)

 

Teagasc Deireanach an Bhúda

“Déan solas díot féin,”
arsa an Búda
sular cailleadh é.
Smaoinímse air sin chuile mhaidin
agus an iliomad scamall dorcha
á stróiceadh anuas ag an oirthear
chun an chéad chomhartha a fhógairt –
gaothrán bán
stríoca bándearga tríd, sailchuachach
nó glas fiú.
Ina sheanfhear dó, luigh sé síos
idir dhá chrann seala
agus d’fhéadfadh sé rud ar bith a rá
a fhios aige gurbh é an focal scoir é.
An solas dóite ag dul in airde,
ag éirí dlúth agus ag socrú síos os cionn na ngort.
Lucht an tsráidbhaile cruinn ina thimpeall
cluas ghéar orthu.
Fiú sula mbíonn an ghrian féin
crochta, neamhspleách, sa spéir ghorm,
tá aigéan na dtonnta buí
do mo bhá go hiomlán.
Smaoinigh sé, ní foláir, ar gach a thit amach
le linn a shaoil dhuaisiúil.
Is ansin braithimse an ghrian féin
is í ina laom os cionn na gcnoc –
milliún bláth trí thine.
Is léir nach bhfuil aon ghá liomsa anseo,
mar sin féin braithim go bhfuilim ag iompú
im’ rud nach féidir luach a chur air.
Thóg sé a cheann go mall
idir na géaga,
d’fhéach idir an dá shúil ar an slua scanraithe.

Briathar / Logos

Briathar

Cén fáth iontas a dhéanamh de na héisc is na builíní?
Abair na focail chearta agus leathfaidh an fíon.
Abair le grá iad
Agus mothaigh fiántas an ghrá sin
Agus mothaigh riachtanas an ghrá sin
Agus pléascfaidh na héisc ina mílte.
Samhlaigh É, ag caint,
Agus ná buair do cheann faoina bhfuil ann,
Faoin rud is léir ná faoin mistéir.
Má bhíse ann ba iad na nithe sin go léir iad.
Samhlaigh é agus is iad na nithe sin go léir iad.
Ith, ól, is bí sona.
Glac leis an míorúilt.
Glac chomh maith le gach focal labhartha
A labhartar le teann grá.

Logos

Why wonder about the loaves and the fishes?
If you say the right words, the wine expands.
If you say them with love
and the felt ferocity of that love
and the felt necessity of that love,
the fish explode into the many.
Imagine him, speaking,
and don't worry about what is reality,
or what is plain, or what is mysterious.
If you were there, it was all those things.
If you can imagine it, it was all those things.
Eat, drink, be happy.
Accept the miracle.
Accept, too, each spoken word
spoken with love.

~ Mary Oliver ~

(Why I Wake Early)