A Happy St. Patrick’s Day to all! I have to admit that this isn’t actually my favorite day of the year; downtown St. Paul, where I work, is hub of St. Pat’s festivities in the Twin Cities, and Rice Park was awash in all manner of green tchotchke and inebriated revelry. I went to the parade, of course, but just long enough to see the Brian Ború pipe band and scout for in-laws (none spotted, mission accomplished).

Instead, I celebrated St. Patrick’s Day by sitting down with some Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill. Here’s my attempt at translating “Gan do Chuid Éadaigh.”

Gan do Chuid Éadaigh

le Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill

Is fearr liom tú
gan do chuid éadaigh ort,
do léine shíoda
is do charabhat,
do scáth fearthainne faoi t’ascaill
is do chulaith
trí phíosa faiseanta
le barr feabhais táilliúrachta,

do bhróga ar a mbíonn
i gcónaí snas,
do lámhainní craiceann eilite
ar do bhois,
do hata crombie
feircthe ar fhaobhar na cluaise–
ní chuireann siad aon ruainne
le do thuairisc,

mar thíos fúthu
i ngan fhios don slua
tá corp gan mhaisle, mháchail
nó míbhua
lúfaireacht ainmhí allta,
cat mór a bhíonn amuigh
san oíche
is fhágann sceimhle ina mharbhshruth.

Do ghuailne leathan fairsing
is do thaobh
chomh slim le sneachta séidte
ar an sliabh;
do dhrom, do bhásta singil
is do ghabhal
an rúta
go bhfuil barr pléisiúrtha ann.

Do chraiceann atá chomh dorcha
is slim
le síoda go mbeadhg na habhann
go ndeirtear faoi
go bhfuil suathadh fear is ban ann.

Mar sin is dá bhrí sin
is tú ag rince liom anocht
cé go mb’fhearr liom tú
gan do chuid éadaigh ort,
b’fhéidir nárbh aon díobhail duit
gléasadh anois ar an dtoirt
an ionad leath ban Éireann
a mhilleadh is a lot.

Without Your Clothes

by Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill

I would rather see you
without your clothes on,
your silk shirt
and your necktie,
your umbrella under your arm
and your smart
three piece suit
of excellent tailoring,

your shoes
freshly polished,
your doe-skinned gloves
on your hands,
your crombie hat
cocked toward your ear–
none of these things
add up to you,

for underneath
and unknown to the world
is a body without scar, blemish,
or defect,
lithe as a wild beast,
a lion that is out
in the night
leaving terror in its wake.

Your broad shoulders
and your flank
are smooth as drifted snow
on the mountain;
your back, your slender waist,
and at your crotch
the root
of highest pleasure.

Your skin is so dark
and smooth
like silk and velvet
spun together
smelling of meadowsweet
and watermead
that can drive
both men and women mad.

And that is why
when you are dancing with me tonight
though of course I would rather
see you without your clothes on,
it would probably be best
that you cover yourself quickly
rather than drive half
the women of Ireland mad.

My translation notes: As always, I’ve tried to land somewhere between literal and interpretive. My edition of Pharaoh's Daughter has a translation by Paul Muldoon, who also did the translation for The Language Question. His translation is far more interpretive than mine, particularly in adding a rather arch tone (“your snazzy loafers/and, la-di-da,/a pair of gloves”) that I don’t quite hear in this poem.

Muldoon also, to my surprise, rendered the … er … uncomfortable-to-English readers stanza in language just on the edge of florid romance novel euphemism. “the root that is the very seat/of pleasure, the pleasure source” is how he does the lines that for me came out “and at your crotch/the root/of highest pleasure.” Try as I might, I couldn’t come up with a way to render “is i do gabhal” as anything except “and at your crotch,” and I’ve got a pretty big dictionary. My trepidation was undone by Ní Dhomhnaill’s own words:

It is almost impossible to be “rude” or “vulgar” in Irish. The body, with its orifices and excretions, is not treated in a prudish manner but is accepted as “an naduir,” or “nature,” and becomes a source of repartee and laughter rather than anything to be ashamed of.

My favorite lines in this poem are “chomh slim le sneachta séidte/ar an sliabh;”–”smooth as drifted snow on the mountain”–for all the “sh” sounds (“slim”, “sneachta”, “séidte”, and “sliabh” all have the slender “s” sound, which is like a slightly breathier English “sh”). That “shush” sound whispers just like the snow that Ní Dhomnaill is describing.