via Bosca Dubh http://ift.tt/1feiW6G
Monday, March 31, 2014
Sunday, March 30, 2014
Saturday, March 29, 2014
Friday, March 28, 2014
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
Monday, March 24, 2014
Sunday, March 23, 2014
Saturday, March 22, 2014
Know your sidewalk ice
While it may not be true that Eskimos have some ridiculously large number of words for snow, they are certainly conscious of the varieties of snow; it’s a big part of their environment and their livelihood. Likewise, runners and walkers in the upper Midwest need an unusual amount of ice-consciousness this time of year. With
from Michael Hartford Blogger http://ift.tt/1rbBA40
via IFTTT
from Michael Hartford Blogger http://ift.tt/1rbBA40
via IFTTT
Friday, March 21, 2014
Thursday, March 20, 2014
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Monday, March 17, 2014
Cnámh – Bone
And my second poem for St. Patrick’s Day, again from Nuala Ní Dhohmnaill’s Selected Poems: Rogha Dánta, ably translated by Michael Hartnett but with my poor translation below instead.
Cnámh
Tráth
ba chnámh mé
ar an má
i measc na gcnámharlach eile.
Sa ghaineamhlach iargúlta
i lár na gcloch is na gcarraigeacha
bhíos lom, bán.
Tháinig an ghaoth,
puth d’anála,
shéid sé an t-anam
ionam.
Dhein díom bean,
múnlaithe as ceann
d’easnacha Adhaimh.
Th´inig an gála,
shéid sé go láidir,
chuala do ghuth
ag glaoch orm sa toirneach.
Dhein díom Éabha,
máthair an chine.
Dhíolas m’oidhreachtthar ceann mo chlainne.
Mhalartaíos úll
ar an dúil ba shine.
Fós
is crámh mé.
Bone
Once
I was a bone
on the plain
mixed with other skeletons.
In a lonely desert
among the rocks and stones
I was bare, white.
The wind came,
a puff of breath,
it blew the soul
into me.
I was made woman,
molded from
Adam’s rib.
The storm came,
blew forcefully,
I heard your voice
calling to me through the thunder.
I was made Even,
mother of the race.
I sold my birthright
for the sake of my children.
I traded an apple
for the most basic desire.
Yet still
I am a bone.
from Michael Hartford Blogger http://ift.tt/1oiIK45
via IFTTT
Sionnach – Fox
For St. Patrick’s Day, the first of two poems by Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill, with my poor translation.
Sionnach
A Mhaidrín rua,
rua rua rua rua,
nach breá nach bhfuil fhios agat
dá mhéid a ritheann leat,
sa deireadh
gurb é siopa an fhionnadóra
a bheid mar chríoch ort.
Nílimidne filí
pioc difriúl.
Deir John Berryman
go ndeir Gottfried Benn
go bhfuilimid ag úsáid ár gcraiceann
nuar pháipéar falla
is go mbhuafar orainn.
Ach fógra do na fionnadóirí;
bígí cúramach.
Ní haon giorria
í seo agaibh
ach sionnach rua
anuas ón gcnoc.
Bainim snap
as l´mh mo chothaithe.
Fox
O little red fox,
red, red, so red
how well you know not
that no matter how you run
that at last
in the furrier’s shop
you’ll meet your end.
With us poets
there’s not a jot of difference.
John Berryman says
that Gottfried Benn says
that we are using our skins
for wallpaper
and that we cannot win.
But a warning to furriers;
be careful.
It’s not a hare
you have there
but a cunning red fox
come down from the hills
I’ll snap
the hand that feeds me.
Some notes. This is from Selected Poems: Rogha Dánta, translated by Michael Hartnett. His translation is a little different from mine, and probably a lot better. I stole the second line from him; the “red red red red” of the original sounds better in Irish, the “red, red, so red” that Hartnett gives has almost a fairy tale feel.
The reference in the second stanza to John Berryman and Gottfriend Benn is to Berryman’s Dream Song #53. Benn was a German Expressionist poet who had initially supported the Nazis, then broke with them (but not very forcefully); immediately after the war, his work was banned by the Allies because of his earlier support of the Nazis, though he was rehabilitated in later years. He may not be a bad example at all of a poet who bit the hands that fed him.
Ní Dhomhnaill uses two words for “fox”–”sionnach” and “madra (diminutive maidrín) rua.” “Maidrín rua” is literally “little red dog,” whereas “sionnach” has a sense more of a fox’s craftiness than its smallness. We don’t have this distinction in English, one word apparently enough for the fox. That’s why I added “cunning” in the last stanza.
Hartnett uses the English idiom “bite/at the hand that feeds me,” which is certainly accurate to the tone of the poem. But I like that the English word “snap” makes its way into the poem (it’s also in my Irish dictionary, which made me suspect that it’s of Irish origins, but it appears to be a Germanic word that probably made its way into Irish from English). So I kept it, for its … well, snappiness.
from Michael Hartford Blogger http://ift.tt/1ny4ZWY
via IFTTT
Sunday, March 16, 2014
Friday, March 14, 2014
Thursday, March 13, 2014
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)