Milseacht na Doircheachta

Nuair is tuirseach atá do shúile
is tnáite a bheidh an domhan leis.

Nuair a thréigfidh d’fhís thú
níl aon chuid den domhan a thiocfaidh ort.

Tá sé in am dul isteach sa doircheacht
áit a bhfuil súile ag an oíche
chun a comh-neacha a aithint.

Is féidir a bheith siúráilte inti
nach lastall den ghrá ataoi.

Beidh an oíche mar bhroinn agat
anocht.

Tabharfaidh an oíche léaslíne dhuit
atá níos sia ná d’amharc.

Ní mór duit rud amháin a fhoghlaim
cruthaíodh an domhan le bheith saor ann.

Caith uait gach domhan eile
seachas an domhan a bhaineann leat.

Uaireanta bíonn gá leis an doircheacht agus cuing
mhilis d’aonaránachta
chun a fháil amach

Éinne ná aon ní
nach chun do dhúiseachta iad

táid róbheag duit.Nuair is tuirseach atá do shúile
is tnáite a bheidh an domhan leis.

Nuair a thréigfidh d’fhís thú
níl aon chuid den domhan a thiocfaidh ort.

Tá sé in am dul isteach sa doircheacht
áit a bhfuil súile ag an oíche
chun a comh-neacha a aithint.

Is féidir a bheith siúráilte inti
nach lastall den ghrá ataoi.

Beidh an oíche mar bhroinn agat
anocht.

Tabharfaidh an oíche léaslíne dhuit
atá níos sia ná d’amharc.

Ní mór duit rud amháin a fhoghlaim
cruthaíodh an domhan le bheith saor ann.

Caith uait gach domhan eile
seachas an domhan a bhaineann leat.

Uaireanta bíonn gá leis an doircheacht agus cuing
mhilis d’aonaránachta
chun a fháil amach

Éinne ná aon ní
nach chun do dhúiseachta iad

táid róbheag duit.

Sweet Darkness

When your eyes are tired
the world is tired also.

When your vision has gone
no part of the world can find you.

Time to go into the dark
where the night has eyes
to recognize its own.

There you can be sure
you are not beyond love.

The dark will be your womb
tonight.

The night will give you a horizon
further than you can see.

You must learn one thing:
the world was made to be free in.

Give up all the other worlds
except the one to which you belong.

Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness
to learn

anything or anyone
that does not bring you alive

is too small for you.

~ David Whyte ~
(House of Belonging)

Γλυκό Σκοτάδι

Όταν τα μάτια σου είναι κουρασμένα
ο κόσμος είναι και αυτός κουρασμένος.

Όταν το όραμά σου σου σε έχει εγκαταλείψει
κανένα κομμάτι του κόσμου δεν μπορεί να σε βρει.

Kαιρός να μπεις μες στο σκοτάδι
όπου η νύχτα έχει μάτια
να αναγνωρίζει το δικό της.

Εκεί μπορείς να είσαι σίγουρος
δεν είσαι πέρα από την αγάπη.

Το σκοτάδι θα είναι η μήτρα σου
απόψε.

Η νύχτα θα σου δώσει έναν ορίζοντα
πιο πέρα από όσο μπορείς να δεις.

Πρέπει να μάθεις ένα πράγμα:
ο κόσμος φτιάχτηκε για να είσαι ελεύθερος.

Παράτα όλους τους άλλους κόσμους
εκτός από αυτόν στον οποίο ανήκεις.

Καμιά φορά χρειάζεται σκοτάδι και η γλυκιά
φυλακή της μοναξιάς σου
για να μάθεις

όποιος ή ό, τι
δεν σε κάνει πιο ζωντανό

είναι πολύ μικρό για σένα.

Leagan Gréigise Sarah Thilykou

John Glenday (Panhala)

Concerning the Atoms of the Soul

Someone explained once how the pieces of what we are

fall downwards at the same rate

as the Universe.

The atoms of us, falling towards the centre

of whatever everything is. And we don't see it.

We only sense their slight drag in the lifting hand.

That's what weight is, that communal process of falling.

Furthermore, these atoms carry hooks, like burrs,

hooks catching like hooks, like clinging to like,

that's what keeps us from becoming something else,

and why in early love, we sometimes

feel the tug of the heart snagging on another's heart.

Only the atoms of the soul are perfect spheres

with no means of holding on to the world

or perhaps no need for holding on,

and so they fall through our lives catching

against nothing, like perfect rain,

and in the end, he wrote, mix in that common well of light

at the centre of whatever the suspected

centre is, or might have been.

~ John Glenday ~

 (Soul Food: Nourishing Poems for Starved Minds, ed. by Neil Astley and Pamela Robertson-Pearce)

Maidir le hAdaimh an Anama

Mhínigh duine éigin uair éigin go dtiteann

na codanna dínn go léir ar an luas céanna

is a thiteann an Chruinne.

Na hadaimh dínn, ag titim i dtreo lár

Gach aon ní. Agus ní fheicimid é.

Ní bhraithimid ach tarraingt éigin sa lámh ardaithe.

Sin is meáchan ann, próiseas titime comónta.

Ar a bharr sin, iompraíonn na hadaimh sin crúcaí, nó leadáin,

Crúcaí ag breith ar a gcomhchrúcaí, aithníonn ciaróg,

agus murach iad a mhalairt a bheadh ionainn,

agus uaireanta i ngrá ár n-óige, braithimid

 tarraingt an chroí is é i bhfostú i gcroí eile.

Sféir gan cháim amháin iad adaimh an anama

gan slí ar bith acu chun greim a choinneáil ar an domhan

nó b’fhéidir nach gá dóibh é,

mar sin titeann siad trínar saol gan greamú

De rud ar bith, mar bháisteach íon,

agus sa deireadh, scríobh sé, meascann le tobar comónta

an tsolais i lár an ruda ar a dtugtar an lár

nó an lár sin a samhlaíodh a bheith ann.

Do m’Iníon

Do m’Iníon

Nuair a chaillfear mé roghnaigh réalta
Is ainmnigh im’ dhiaidh í
Chun go dtuigfeá
Nár thréigeas thú
Nár dhearúdas thú.
Bhíse, leis, id’ réalta domsa
Is leanas thú trí do bhreith
Is d’óige, lámh liom
Id lámhsa.

Nuair a chaillfear mé
Roghnaigh réalta is ainmnigh í
Im dhiaidhse chun go lonróinn
Ort, go dtí go mbeimid beirt
Sa dorchadas agus sa tost
Le chéile.

For My Daughter

When I die choose a star
and name it after me
that you may know
I have not abandoned
or forgotten you.
You were such a star to me,
following you through birth
and childhood, my hand
in your hand.

When I die
choose a star and name it
after me so that I may shine
down on you, until you join
me in darkness and silence
together.

~ David Ignatow ~



(Against the Evidence: Selected Poems 1934-1994)
(for Erin, on her Birthday)

No Title Required / Níl Gá le Teideal

No Title Required

It has come to this: I'm sitting under a tree
beside a river
on a sunny morning.
It's an insignificant event
and won't go down in history.
It's not battles and pacts,
where motives are scrutinized,
or noteworthy tyrannicides.

And yet I'm sitting by this river, that's a fact.
And since I'm here
I must have come from somewhere,
and before that
I must have turned up in many other places,
exactly like the conquerors of nations
before setting sail.

Even a passing moment has its fertile past,
its Friday before Saturday,
its May before June.
Its horizons are no less real
than those that a marshal's field glasses might scan.

This tree is a poplar that's been rooted here for years.
The river is the Raba; it didn't spring up yesterday.
The path leading through the bushes
wasn't beaten last week.
The wind had to blow the clouds here
before it could blow them away.

And though nothing much is going on nearby,
the world is no poorer in details for that.
It's just as grounded, just as definite
as when migrating races held it captive.

Conspiracies aren't the only things shrouded in silence.
Retinues of reasons don't trail coronations alone.
Anniversaries of revolutions may roll around,
but so do oval pebbles encircling the bay.

The tapestry of circumstance is intricate and dense.
Ants stitching in the grass.
The grass sewn into the ground.
The pattern of a wave being needled by a twig.

So it happens that I am and look.
Above me a white butterfly is fluttering through the air
on wings that are its alone,
and a shadow skims through my hands
that is none other than itself, no one else's but its own.

When I see such things, I'm no longer sure
that what's important
is more important than what's not.

 ~ Wisława Szymborska ~

(Poems New and Collected 1957-1997,
trans. S. Baranczak and C. Cavanagh)

Níl Gá le Teideal

Is mar seo atá; mé im shuí faoi chrann
cois abhann
maidin ghréine.
Ócáid gan tábhacht
nach gcuimhneoidh an stair uirthi.
Ní cathanna is comhaontuithe atá anseo againn
ina scrúdaítear ceannfháthanna
is níor maraíodh tíoránach.

Fós féin, táim im shuí cois na habhann seo, gan bhréag.
Agus ós anseo atáim
caithfidh gur thána as ball éigin
agus roimis sin
caithfidh gur nochtas in an-chuid áiteanna,
díreach ar nós cloíteoirí náisiún
sular chrochadar a gcuid seolta.

An meander féint tá a chúlra méith aige,
Aoine aige roimh an Satharn
Bealtaine aige roimh Mheitheamh.
Is ann d’fhíor na spéire aige siúd
chomh cinnte is atá radharc ina ghloiní ag an marascal.

Poibleog atá sa chrann agus fréamhacha anseo aige le fada.
Is í an Raba an abhainn; ní inné a scaird sí aníos.
An chonair trí na sceacha
ní seachtain ó shin a buaileadh í.
Caithfidh gur shéid an ghaoth na néalta anseo
sula scuabfaidh sí chun siúil arís iad.

 Is bíodh is nach bhfuil mórán ag titim amach thart anseo
níl an domhan gann ar mhionghnéithe dá dheasca sin.
Tá sé chomh fódúil is chomh fíor
is a bhí agus é gafa ag treibheanna fáin.


Ní comhchealga amháin atá faoi bhrat tosta.
Ní corónú amháin a leanann lucht coimhdeachta na réasún.
D’fhéadfadh go mbeadh cuimhní ar réabhlóidí ag rabhláil thart
ach bíonn púróga ubhchruthacha amhlaidh is an bhá á timpeallú acu.
Is casta agus is dlúth í taipéis na gcúinsí.
Fuáil na seangán san fhéar.
An féar fuáilte sa talamh.
Patrún toinne á ghreanadh ag cipín.

Is mar sin domsa anseo ag breathnú thart.
Féileacán bán ag eiteallaigh os mo chionn tríd an aer
agus is leis féin amháin iad na sciatháin,
is scinneann scáil trí mo lámha
agus ní aon ní eile í ach í féin, ní le héinne eile í ach léi féin amháin.

Ar fheiceáil dom na nithe sin, nílim cinnte a thuilleadh
an bhfuil an ní tábhachtach
níos tábhachtaí ná an ní atá gan tábhacht.

The Wish to Be Generous -- Wendell Berry

 

Mian a bheith Fial

Caillfear gach a bhfónaim dó, na haoibhnis go léir,
an cholainn a d'adhain an cholainn seo, gairdín is gort,
na lilí ciúine ina seasamh sa choill,
na coillte, an cnoc, an chruinne go léir, loiscfear
an uile ní in urchóid an duine, nó éagfaidh
ina aois féin. Go dtuga an domhan dom
suan an dorchadais gan réaltaí, chun go gcuirfinn eolas
ar mo sholaisín féin a tógadh uaim isteach i síol
an túis is an deiridh, chun go sléachtfainn
roimh an mistéir, agus seasamh ar an domhan seo
mar chrann i ngort, ag imeacht gan deabhadh
gan danaid i dtreo a bhfuil le tarlú, mo bheatha,
m’ísliú sa bhféar go foighneach is le fonn.

The Wish to Be Generous

All that I serve will die, all my delights,
the flesh kindled from my flesh, garden and field,
the silent lilies standing in the woods,
the woods, the hill, the whole earth, all
will burn in man's evil, or dwindle
in its own age. Let the world bring on me
the sleep of darkness without stars, so I may know
my little light taken from me into the seed
of the beginning and the end, so I may bow
to mystery, and take my stand on the earth
like a tree in a field, passing without haste
or regret toward what will be, my life
a patient willing descent into the grass.

~ Wendell Berry ~

(The Collected Poems, 1957-1982)

Tíolacadh

A Blessing

Just off the Highway to Rochester, Minnesota
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

~ James Wright ~

(Above the River)

Tíolacadh

Tamall ón Mórbhealach go Rochester, Minnesota
léimeann an clapsholas amach go séimh ar na féartha
agus dorchaíonn súile an dá chapall Indiacha
le cineáltacht.
Thánadar go háthasach amach as na crainn sailí
chun fáilte a chur romhainn, mé féin is mo chompánach.
Thar an sreang dheilgneach linn isteach sa bhféarach
áit a rabhadar ag ithe ar feadh an lae, leo féin.
Mionluasc teann na matán, ní cheileann siad an ríméad
atá orthu.
Umhlaíonn siad go scáfar mar ealaí sa linn. Grá acu dá chéile.
Níor sáraíodh riamh a n-uaigneas.
Istigh iontu féin arís
tosaíonn siad ar chúpla tom óg earraigh a mhungailt sa dorchadas.
Ba dheas liom barróg a bhreith ar an gcapall is caoile orthu,
mar tá sise tar éis siúl chugam anall
is í ag sróinínteacht ar mo lámh chlé.
Capall dubh is bán í
an mhoing in aimhréidh ar a clár éadain
agus griogann leoithne mé chun cluas fhada léi a mhuirniú
cluas atá chomh mín le craiceann ar rosta cailín.
i bhfaiteadh na súl, tuigtear dom
dá siúlfainn amach as mo cholainn go
bpéacfainn faoi bhláth

Thána ar an Saol Seo chun go bhFeicfinn

I HAVE COME INTO THIS WORLD TO SEE THIS

I have come into this world to see this:

the sword drop from men's hands even at the height

of their arc of anger

because we have finally realized there is just one flesh to wound

and it is His - the Christ's, our

Beloved's.

I have come into this world to see this: all creatures hold hands as

we pass through this miraculous existence we share on the way

to even a greater being of soul,

a being of just ecstatic light, forever entwined and at play

with Him.

I have come into this world to hear this:

every song the earth has sung since it was conceived in

the Divine's womb and began spinning from

His wish,

every song by wing and fin and hoof,

every song by hill and field and tree and woman and child,

every song of stream and rock,

every song of tool and lyre and flute,

every song of gold and emerald

and fire,

every song the heart should cry with magnificent dignity

to know itself as

God:

for all other knowledge will leave us again in want and aching -

only imbibing the glorious Sun

will complete us.

I have come into this world to experience this:

men so true to love

they would rather die before speaking

an unkind

word,

men so true their lives are His covenant -

the promise of

hope.

I have come into this world to see this:

the sword drop from men's hands

even at the height of

their arc of

rage

because we have finally realized

there is just one flesh

we can wound.

~ Hafiz ~

(Love Poems From God: Twelve Sacred Voices from the East and West by Daniel Ladinsky)

THÁNA AR AN SAOL SEO CHUN GO bhFEICFINN

Thána ar an saol seo chun go bhfeicfinn:

titim an chlaímh ó lámh an duine agus cuthach mire air

mar gur thuigeamar fá dheoidh nach bhfuil ach an t-aon fheoil amháin ann is féidir a leonadh,

an fheoil ar Leis í – an Críost, ár nAonsearc.

Thána ar an saol seo chun go bhfeicfinn: gach éinne is greim láimhe againn ar a chéile is sinn ag gabháil tríd an saol míorúilteach seo le chéile i dtreo an Mhór-Anama,

Anam síor shoilseach ríméadach, ceangailte de shíor Leis agus lena spraoi.

Thána ar an saol seo chun go gcloisfinn:

gach aon amhrán a chan an domhan ó gineadh é

sa bhroinn Dhiaga is ó thosaigh ag casadh ina dhúil,

gach aon amhrán ag sciathán, eite is crúb,

gach aon amhrán ón gcnoc, ón ngort, ón gcrann ag bean is páiste,

gach aon amhrán ag sruth is ag carraig,

ag uirlis, cláirseach is liúit,

laoi an óir, na smaragaide is na tine,

gach aon amhrán is ceart don chroí a scairteadh le lándínit chun eolas a chur air féin mar Dhia:

mar is éalangach easnamhach a bheimid arís le gach saghas eolais eile nach é –

ní slán sinn go n-ólfar an Ghrian ghlórmhar.

Thána ar an saol seo chun go dtuigfinn:

go mb’fhearr leis an té atá dílis don ghrá

bás a fháil sula n-éalódh siolla neamhcharthanach uaidh,

é chomh dílis sin gurb é A chúnant siúd é a shaol –

geallúint an dóchais.

Thána ar an saol seo chun go bhfeicfinn:

titim an chlaímh ó lámh an duine agus cuthach mire air

mar gur thuigeamar fá dheoidh nach bhfuil ach an t-aon fheoil amháin ann is féidir a leonadh

Laoi na Maidine

MORNING SONG

The red dawn now is rearranging the earth

Thought by thought
Beauty by beauty
 
Each sunrise a link in the ladder

Thought by thought
Beauty by beauty
 
The ladder the backbone
Of shimmering deity

Thought by thought
Beauty by beauty
 
Child stirring in the web of your mother
Do not be afraid
Old man turning to walk through the door
Do not be afraid

~ Joy Harjo ~

(How We Became Human)

Laoi na Maidine

Tá an domhan á athchóiriú anois ag an gcamhaoir dhearg

Smaoineamh ar smaoineamh
Áilleacht ar áilleacht
 
Nasc sa dréimire is ea é gach uair a éiríonn an ghrian

Smaoineamh ar smaoineamh
Áilleacht ar áilleacht

Cnámh droma na diagachta lonraí
Atá sa dréimire

Smaoineamh ar smaoineamh
Áilleacht ar áilleacht
 
A leanbh a chorraíonn in uige do mháthar
Ná bíodh aon fhaitíos ort
A sheanduine a chasann chun siúl thar an doras
Ná bíodh aon fhaitíos ort

Wendell Berry: Na Géanna Fiáine

The Wild Geese

Horseback on Sunday morning,
harvest over, we taste persimmon
and wild grape, sharp sweet
of summer's end.  In time's maze
over the fall fields, we name names
that went west from here, names
that rest on graves.  We open
a persimmon seed to find the tree
that stands in promise,
pale, in the seed's marrow.
Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes.  Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear,
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here.  And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye
clear.  What we need is here.

~ Wendell Berry ~
(Collected Poems 1957-1982)

Na Géanna Fiáine

Ar muin capaill maidin Domhnaigh,
an fómhar istigh, blaisimid de na dátphlumaí
is de na caora fíniúna fiáine, géar, milis,
is an samhradh thart. I gcathair ghríobháin an ama
thar ghoirt an fhómhair anonn, ainmnímid na hainmneacha
a chuaigh siar, ainmneacha ina luí
ar leaca uaighe. Osclaímid síol
dátphluma is cad atá ann ach crann
ina gheallúint, mílítheach i smior an tsíl.
Nochtann géanna go hard os ár gcionn.
Gabhann tharainn, an spéir á hiamh. Tréigean,
sa ghrá abair nó sa suan, a choinníonn
ar an ród iad, glé,
sa chreideamh ársa: tá a bhfuil uainn
anseo. Agus guímid ní ar mhaithe
le domhan nua ná neamh, ach a bheith
ciúin sa chroí agus glé
sa tsúil. Tá a bhfuil uainn anseo.

Séimhe na Neach bhFiáin

Séimhe na Neach bhFiáin

Nuair a mhéadaíonn an t-éadóchas ionam
agus nuair a dhúisíonn an fhuaim is lú mé i lár na hoíche
agus eagla orm faoi mo shaol féin is faoi mo leanaí,
imím liom is luímse siar san áit a nglacann bardal na coille
a scíth agus nach álainn san uisce é, an áit ina gcothaíonn an chorr réisc mhór í féin.
Seo mé isteach i séimhe na neach bhfiáin
nach eire ar a mbeatha é an danaid a thuar. Seo mé
i láthair an uisce chiúin.
Agus braithim os mo chionn na réaltaí is iad caoch I rith an lae
ag feitheamh lena solas. Ar feadh scaithimhín glacaim scíth
i ngrásta an domhain, is mé saor.

The Peace of Wild Things


When despair grows in me
and I wake in the middle of the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting for their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

~ Wendell Berry ~

Chuang Tzú: Nuair a oireann an bhróg

An bhfuil sé indéanta tabhairt faoin scríbhneoireacht, faoin bpéintéireacht, faoin gcumadóireacht, faoin rince, faoin haiku - faoi ealaín ar bith - de réir phrionsabail ChuangTzú?  Tá ar ndóigh ach sular éirigh leis an línitheoir a luaitear anseo, Ch'ui, sular éirigh leis na ciorcail fhoirfe sin a tharraingt go saorlámhach, bhí cúpla míle ciorcal déanta aige. Líofacht atá uainn go léir, is cuma cad atá ar siúl againn, ag cumadh haiku, abair, nó líofacht sa chaint, sa mhachnamh, sa siúl.


Féach anseo Chuang Tzú (nó Zhuangzi) agus é ag taibhreamh faoi fhéileacán nó an é go bhfuil an féileacán ag taibhreamh faoi Chuang Tzú?

Nuair a oireann an bhróg

Is foirfe a bhí na  ciorcail
a tharraing an línitheoir Ch’ui
go saorlámhach ná le compás.

Thug a mhéara foirmeacha spontáineacha
leo as an bhfolús. Idir an dá linn
bhí a aigne saor agus ní raibh sé buartha
faoina raibh ar siúl aige.


Ní raibh dúthracht dá laghad ag teastáil
bhí a aigne go hiomlán neamhchasta
agus gan aon bhac uirthi.


Mar sin, nuair a oireann an bhróg
déantar dearmad ar an troigh,
nuair a oireann an crios
déantar dearmad ar an mbolg,
nuair atá an croí i gceart
déantar dearmad ar “ar son” is “in aghaidh”.

Gan treallús, gan iallach
gan riachtanas, gan tarraingt:
beidh smacht ansin agat
ar chúrsaí
saorfhear a bheidh ionat.

Éasca mar is cóir. Tosaigh i gceart
is bí éasca.
lean ort go héasca is beidh tú i gceart.
An tslí cheart le bheith éasca
ná an tslí cheart a dhearmad
is dearmad a dhéanamh ar éascaíocht na slí

When the Shoe Fits

Ch'ui the draftsman
Could draw more perfect circles freehand
Than with a compass.

His fingers brought forth
Spontaneous forms from nowhere. His mind
Was meanwhile free and without concern
With what he was doing.

No application was needed
His mind was perfectly simple
And knew no obstacle.

So, when the shoe fits
The foot is forgotten,
When the belt fits
The belly is forgotten,
When the heart is right
"For" and "against" are forgotten.

No drives no compulsions,
No needs, no attractions:
Then your affairs
Are under control.
You are a free man.

Easy is right. Begin right
And you are easy.
Continue easy and you are right.
The right way to go easy
Is to forget the right way
And forget that the going is easy.

~ Chuang Tzu ~

(In the Dark Before Dawn, trans. Thomas Merton)

Dán le Saadi, duine de mhórfhilí na hIaráine (1207 -1291)

Ní seomra cúirte é an saol seo,
níl breitheamh ann, ná giúiré, ná gearánaí.

Carbhán atá anseo againn
lán de neacha aite
scéalta iontacha á n-insint acu faoi Dhia

The world is not a courtroom,
there is no judge, no jury, no plaintiff.

This is a caravan,
filled with eccentric beings
telling wondrous stories about God.

~ Saadi ~

Sea!

Sea
D'fhéadfadh sé tarlú uair ar bith, tornádó,
crith talún, Harmagadón. D’fhéadfadh sé tarlú.
Nó taitneamh na gréine, grá, slánú.

D’fhéadfadh, tá’s agat. Sin an fáth go ndúisímid
is go bhféachaimid amach – níl aon rud cinnte
sa saol seo.

Ach tá roinnt bónas ann, an mhaidin, abair,
an nóiméad seo anois, lár an lae abair,
nó tráthnóna


Yes

It could happen any time, tornado,
earthquake, Armageddon.  It could happen.
Or sunshine, love, salvation.

It could, you know.  That's why we wake
and look out -- no guarantees
in this life.

But some bonuses, like morning,
like right now, like noon,
like evening.

~ William Stafford ~
(The Way It Is)

Athchruthaímis an domhan le briathra,

Let's remake the world with words.
Not frivolously, nor
To hide from what we fear,
But with a purpose.

Let's,
As Wordsworth said, remove
"The dust of custom" so things
Shine again, each object arrayed
In its robe of original light.

And then we'll see the world
As if for the first time.
As once we gazed at the beloved
Who was gazing at us.

~ Gregory Orr (Concerning The Book That Is the Body Of The Beloved)

Athchruthaímis an domhan le briathra,
ní go héaganta ná chun dul i bhfolach
ón ní is eagal linn,
ach d'aon oghaim.

Glanaimis
mar a deir Wordsworth
glanaimis dusta an ghnáthaimh i dtreo is go lonróidh
nithe arís, an uile ní leagtha amach
faoi róba an bhunsolais aige.

Feicfear an domhan ansin
faoi mar a bhí a chéaduair é
faoi mar a bhreathnaíomar tráth ar ár rúnsearc
a bhí ag breathnú orainne.

Walt Whitman: Míorúiltí

Míorúiltí 

Dhéanfása scéal mór as míorúiltí ab ea?
Óm thaobhsa de, ní heol dom faic ach míorúiltí.
Pé acu an ag siúl sráideanna Mhanattan atáim
nó sracfhéachaint agam á tabhairt trasna na ndíonta i dtreo na spéire
nó mé ag lapadaíl cosnochta ar an gcladach díreach
 ar imeall an tsáile,
nó mé im sheasamh fé na crainn sna coillte
nó ag  comhrá le cara dil i rith an lae, nó luí sa leaba
le cara dil istoíche.
nó suí chun boird ag dinnéar leis an gcuid eile,
nó ag  breathnú ar stróinséirí os mo chomhair sa tram,
nó féachaint ar na beacha meala agus iad gnóthach timpeall na coirceoige
- athmhaidin samhraidh -
nó beithígh ag iníor sa ghort
nó éanlaith, nó iontas na bhfeithidí san aer
nó iontas luí na gréine, nó na réaltaí is iad ag lonrú
go séimh is go ciúin,
nó cuar caol tanaí gleoite fíneáilte na gealaí úire
san earrach . . .
tá gach aon orlach ciúbach den spás míorúilteach,
agus an rud céanna á leathadh ar fud gach slat chearnach
de dhromchla an domhain,
gach troigh den chroí tíre ag cur thar maoil mar an gcéanna.
Míorúilt leanúnach domsa is ea an mhuir
na héisc sa snámh - na carraigeacha - gluaiseacht na dtonn
- longa is na fearaibh iontu,
an bhfuil míorúiltí níos éachtaí ann ná iad?

Miracles

Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge
of the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with anyone I love, or sleep in the bed
at night with anyone I love,
Or sit at the table at dinner with the rest,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honeybees busy around the hive
of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining
so quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon
in spring . . .
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread
with the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.
To me the sea is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim-the rocks-the motion of the waves
-the ships with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?

    ~ Walt Whitman ~
    
    (Leaves of Grass)

Czesław Miłosz: Dóchas

DÓCHAS

Is é is dóchas ann nuair is dóigh leat
nach taibhreamh é an domhan ach feoil bheo,
nach éitheach iad an radharc, an tadhall, an éisteacht,
is an uile ní atá feicthe anseo agat
gur geall le gairdín é is tú ag breathnú air ón ngeata.

Níl cead isteach agat. Ach is cinnte go bhfuil sé ann.
Dá mbeadh ar ár gcumas féachaint air le grinneas is le gaois
cá bhfios nach dtiocfaimis áit éigin sa ghairdín
ar bhláth nua aisteach éigin agus réalt nár ainmníodh fós.

Deir daoine áirithe nach ceart ár súile a thrust
nach bhfuil aon ní ann dáiríre ach dealramh éigin.
Sin iad an dream atá gan dóchas.
Is dóigh leo a luaithe is a iompóimid uaidh
go dtéann an domhan as, laistiar dár ndroim
sciobtha mar dhea ag baicle gadaithe.

Hope

Hope is with you when you believe
The earth is not a dream but living flesh,
That sight, touch, and hearing do not lie,
That all things you have ever seen here
Are like a garden looked at from a gate.

You cannot enter. But you're sure it's there.
Could we but look more clearly and wisely
We might discover somewhere in the garden
A strange new flower and an unnamed star.

Some people say we should not trust our eyes,
That there is nothing, just a seeming,
These are the ones who have no hope.
They think that the moment we turn away,
The world, behind our backs, ceases to exist,
As if snatched up by the hands of thieves.

Czeslaw Milosz

A dhia an róid

Journeying god, pitch your tent with mine so that I may not become deterred by hardship, strangeness, doubt. Show me the movement I must make toward a wealth not dependent on possessions, toward a wisdom not based on books, toward a strength not bolstered by might, toward a god not confined to heaven. Help me to find myself as I walk in other's shoes.

A dhia an róid, suigh do phuball taobh lem cheannsa, chun nach gcoiscfidh cruatan, coimhthíos ná amhras mé. Léirigh dom an tslí chun an tsaibhris sin nach bhfuil ag brath ar mhaoin, i dtreo na gaoise sin nach bhfuil bunaithe ar leabhair, i dtreo an nirt sin nach cumhacht is bun leis, i dtreo dé, dia nach bhfuil coinnithe ar neamh. Cabhraigh liom teacht orm féin i mbróga daoine eile.

(Paidir-dhán as Gána)

Táimse go hIomlán Difriúil

Táimse go hiomlán difriúil
bíodh is go bhfuil an carbhat céanna orm is a bhí inné
agus mé chomh beo bocht is a bhíos inné,
agus mé chomh beagmhaitheasach is a bhíos inné,
inniu
táimse go hiomlán difriúil.
Bíodh is go bhfuil na balcaisí céanna orm is a bhí orm inné
is mé ar mo chaid i gcónaí,
mé chomh hamscaí is a bhíos inné, mar sin féin
inniu
táimse go hiomlán difriúil.

Á ...
dúnaimse mo shúile go foighneach
ar an uile straois is streill
ar an meangadh cam agus ar an ngáire gáifeach -
is feicim ansin istigh ionam féin
féileacán gleoite amháin
is é ag eitilt i dtreo an lá amárach


    
    ~ Kuroda Saburo ~
    

Rilke: Panhala: I bhfáinní atá ag leathnú amach a mhairim

I bhfáinní atá ag leathnú amach a mhairim ag leathnú ar fud na cruinne. D'fhéadfadh nach gcríochnóinnse an ciorcal áirithe seo ach tugaimse mé féin dó. Timpeall ar Dhia i bhfáinne mé, an túr príomhordúil, is mar sin a bhíos riamh anall agus n'fheadarsa fós: an fabhcún mé, anfa nó móramhrán	Ich lebe mein Leben in wachsenden Ringen, die sich über die Dinge ziehn. Ich werde den letzten vielleicht nicht vollbringen, aber versuchen will ich ihn. Ich kreise um Gott, um den uralten Turm, und ich kreise jahrtausendelang; und ich weiß noch nicht: bin ich ein Falke, ein Sturm oder ein großer Gesang.
I live my life in widening circles that reach out across the world. I may not complete this last one but I give myself to it. I circle around God, around the primordial tower. I've been circling for thousands of years and I still don't know: am I a falcon, a storm, or a great song?
Leagan Gaeilge: Gabriel Rosenstock Bunleagan: Rainer Maria Rilke, 20.9.1899, Berlin-Schmargendorf Rilke’s Book of Hours:Love Poems to God, translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy

Panhala: Seoladh le Cór Gaoithe

SEOLADH LE CÓIR GHAOITHE Lá agus an ghaoth mar ba mhian leat í bheith ní gá don seol ach borradh is líontar an domhan le háilleacht. Lá mar sin is ea an lá inniu. Tá mo shúile ar nós na gréine agus an gheallúint seo uaithi: geallúint na beatha a chomhlíontar i gcónaí gach aon mhaidin. Bronnann an croí beo is an sféar lonrach úd an méid seo orainn: muirníonn siad araon an domhan go tláith. Leoithne í seo a ionsaíonn an t-anam. An grá seo is eol dom féin im chroí istigh: buaileann sé druma. Géaga ag luascadh im thimpeall: cé a d'fhanfadh ann féin os comhair m'áilleachta? Nach éachtach í an tsíocháin! ach is mó an spraoi a bhaineann le damhsa na heacstaise is gan aon scáthán ann: fonn comhluadair ar ár mbeola. Lá agus an ghaoth mar ba mhian leat í bheith ní gá don seol ach borradh is cuirtear tús leis an ngrá. Lá mar sin is ea an lá inniu

ON A DAY WHEN THE WIND IS PERFECT On a day when the wind is perfect, the sail just needs to open and the world is full of beauty. Today is such a day. My eyes are like the sun that makes promises; the promise of life that it always keeps each morning. The living heart gives to us as does that luminous sphere, both caress the earth with great tenderness. This is a breeze that can enter the soul. This love I know plays a drum. Arms move around me; who can contain their self before my beauty? Peace is wonderful, but ecstatic dance is more fun, and less narcissistic; gregarious He makes our lips. On a day when the wind is perfect, the sail just needs to open and the love starts. Today is such a day.

~ Rumi ~ (Leagan Béarla: Love Poems From God: Twelve Sacred Voices from the East and West by Daniel Ladinsky)