Category
Translations
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04.15.09I gCuimhne Ar Lís Ceárnaighe, Blascaodach – In Memory of Elizabeth Kearny, Blasket IslanderAccording to my logs, someone from Dublin wandered here a couple days ago looking for this particular poem; I'll take that as a request and offer up a clumsy translation. I gCuimhne Ar Lís Ceárnaighe, Blascaodach le Michael Davitt Tráth bhíodh cártaí ar bord, Coróin is mugaí tae faoi choinneal Cois tine ar caorthainn; Asal amuigh san oíche, Madraí tamall gan bhia Is seanbhean dom mharú le Gaolainn. Tráth bhíodh an chaint tar éis Aifrinn Is nábh í dhamnaigh faisean Stróinséirí in aon fhéachaint shearbhasash amháin Is nár chuir sí Leathanta Breátha Ó Ollscoil Chorca&iaacute; ina n-áit: 'An tuairgín', 'an coca féir', 'an fuaisceán.' Tráth prátaí is maicréal Le linn na nuachta i lár an lae Ba ...
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03.30.09Oileán – IslandThe April 2009 issue of Poetry is the translation issue. It's full of poetry translated into English from French, German, Chinese, and Spanish. And, lo and behold, there's even a poem by Biddy Jenkinson, translated from Irish by Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill. Ní Dhomhnaill was the first contemporary Irish poet I encountered, with a translation exercise from Sean T. Kelly in the basement of the Irish Well. She's one of the easier Irish poets to find--a well-stocked American bookstore may well have a dusty copy of "Pharaoh's Daughter" or "Rogha Danta" tucked away on the poetry shelf. She's ...
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03.17.09String QuartetString Quartet le Michael Davitt Triúr veidhleadóir agus cailín an veidhlín mhóir suite i bhfáinne solais ... Mozart ... Nótaí ag imeacht leo go ciúin ar aon bhóithrín smaointeach amháin ... Bartok ... Nótaí ag teacht le chéile is ag scaipeadh arís róscaipthe dom chluais dhaonna ... Caitheann fear magaidh biorán ar an urlár le teann fiosrachta ... Ceangal Is é is lú a thuigeann fonn-magaidh-cheal-tuisceana ná an fear magaidh (cheal tuisceana) a thuigeann ... Feabhra 1969 String Quartet by Michael Davitt A trio of violinists and a small girl with a big violin arranged in a circle of light ... Mozart ... Notes drift quietly as from a pensive lane ... Bartok ... Notes come together and scatter again too scattered for the human ear ... The mocking man wears spikes on the floor out of sheer curiosity ... Look over ...
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03.16.09Éan Fear agus Capall – Bird, Man, and HorseÉan Fear agus Capall le Michael Davitt Éan ar ghéag ag meánlae ina aonar ag moladh na maidne a bhí imithe is nach raibh. Fear i dtigh tábhairne ag meánoíche ólta le huaigneas is ag canadh sa chiúnas do chluasa adhmaid. Capall bradach i bpáirc ag méanfach is ag déanamh seite le púcaí a saolaíodh an oíche roimhe sin: ba chuma leis ach comhluadar a beith aige. Bird, Man, and Horse by Michael Davitt A bird on a branch at midday alone is praising the morning that is gone not coming. A man on his way to the pub at midnight to drink alone is chanting softly to the wooden ears. A loose horse in the field yawning is making its hiding place from its life the night before: it doesn't matter what company one keeps. I think there may be a pun on púcaí, concealment, ...
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03.13.09Madrachas – DogsMadrachas le Michael Davitt Seanmadra cois tine Gan aird ar an saol Smaointeach mar fhile Is cancarach ann féin. Dúisiíonn le fiosracht Comhaireann a mhéara Éiríonn ina sheasamh Is breacann véarsa. Tagann bean an tí Le cor ina srón Léann an fhilíocht Tugann cic dó sa tóin. Seanmhadra faoin mbáisteach Bréan den saol Ag cumadh mar mháistir Ach brónach ann féin. Dogs by Michael Davitt A useless old dog Lies by the fire Spiteful and cranky. He wakes with a start Rises to his feet And scatters verses. The landlady comes Turning up her nose At his poetry And gives a kick to his ass. The old dog lying in the rain With a foul life Shaped by his master But wallowing in his own sorrows. I'm quite sure I didn't get this one ...
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03.12.09Ar Fhilleadh Abhaile Ó Dhún Chaoin – On Turning Home To Dún ChaoinAr Fhilleadh Abhaile Ó Dhún Chaoin le Michael Davitt Aithne dhúnchaoineach atá anois agam Orm fein. An fada a mhairfidh sí? An mbuailfead arís liom féin Sa slua i Sráid Phádraig -- Seanchra caillte le mí -- Nó an seachnód é (mas féidir) Go dtí aimsir na Nollag Go mbainfimid beirt Dún Chaoin amach Seans go raibh sé i nDún Chaoin le mí I ngan fhios dom. Deireadh Fómhair 1968 On Turning Home To Dún Chaoin by Michael Davitt Memories of Dún Chaoin Are with me now. How much longer will it be? We met again In the throngs on Patrick Street -- Old friends lost to me -- Or in the byways (if that's possible) At Christmastime Shalll we two set out for ...
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03.11.09Cloisim – I HeardI've had several visitors (well, about 10, but for me that's a lot) who've been drawn here searching for the Irish poet Michael Davitt. I'm not sure why there's a sudden increase in interest in a modern Irish poet, but since there seems to be an audience for him I might as well take advantage of the spike. From now until St. Patrick's Day (and perhaps beyond if I have the momentum and my Foclóir Gaelge-Béarla holds up), I'll try to offer a translation a day. So here's Davitt's "Cloisim" from the collection "Gleann ar Ghleann," first in the ...
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03.09.09Listening Room, Volume 2Some more podcasts that have piqued my interest recently: Lorrie Moore on Donald Barthelme From the New York Review of Books, one of my favorite living short story writers talks about one of my favorite dead short story writers. The discussion begins with a reflection on the near-simultaneous passing of Raymond Carver (August 2, 1988) and Donald Barthelme (July 23, 1989), who together bookended the modern American short story. It's hard to imagine two less similar writers--one a grim naturalist, the other a playfully anarchic surrealist--but their influence can be seen still in the American short story, not least in ...
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02.04.09Gaoth Chun Dé – A Wind from GodA Wind from God by Michael Davitt It is an ill wind indeed that brings rain out of the west as I watch my old cap fly into the air over God's chapel. Gaoth Chun Dé le Michael Davitt Níorbh aon drochghaoth í siúd a thug an bháisteach léi aniar mar chonaic Seáinín caipín san aer os cionn séipéal Dé. This was a tough one; I'm sure I got it entirely wrong. It's almost haiku-like in its simplicity and compression, and I had to make some guesses for things (like "drochghaoth," which I've rendered "ill wind") not covered in my Foclóir Póca.
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02.03.09Aisling ag Casadh na Gráige: Vision at the Turning of the RoadAn attempt at translation ... Vision at the Turning of the Road (Casadh na Gráige) by Michael Davitt I sketched With a quick pen this morning A picture: Rocky shore, heath, road -- It's an eerie place, Casadh na Gráige. The picture rises up before me ... I hear the thin cries of women On the north wind, I see the lonely grave of the sea, The dark woman, her skeletal hands, Keening toward the sky ... I fall down on my knees, devoutly. Prayers glide from me And I see the graven words on a slab: THE DEAD MAN A life lost at last in the heart of the people I rise ... And turn back In pursuit of the ...
