Sa Daingean

by Liam Ó Muirthile

Tráthnóna sa Daingean.
Dearmadaim cad as mé leathshoicind –
is a bhfuil d’eachtrannaigh líofa ag siúl an bhaile seo
gléasta go cuí don bháisteach.
Folmhaíonn siad amach
as a mbusanna steiréafónacha;
Na Herranna na Fraunna na Monsieuranna
na Madameanna na Signoreanna na Signorinanna,
gogalach choitianta na hEorpa i gCorca Dhuibhne.
Agus sa Daingean tagann na bliúnna orm
mar a chiúnaíonn an ceo anuas ar Cheann Sléibhe,
tá an dúthaigh seo lán de thíosanna agus thuasanna
agus mise im chuairteoir aimnéiseach aonlae.
Is cuimhním ar an té a scríobh i dtarra
ar an bhfalla ag barr an chalaidh i nDún Chaoin:
‘Rith síos má tá ceamara agat’ – íoróin in aisce
i mionteanga Eorpach nach dtuigeann puinn.
Is searraim díom na bliúnna ar Chéibh an Daingin,
tá leaba na hoíche thiar i nGleann Fán
ar díthreabh i mbungaló sna cathracha
agus cheal áit ar bith eile raghad ann.

An Fuíoll Feá: Rogha Dánta / Wood Cuttings: New and Selected Poems. A selection of the poet’s work with translations into English by Gabriel Rosenstock.

By kind permission of the author and Cois Life

In Dingle

An afternoon in Dingle.
For one split second I forget where I am from –
surrounded by polished foreigners who stroll about
precision-dressed for rain.
They empty out
of their stereophonic buses;
the Herrs and Fraus, Messieurs
and Madames, Signors and Signorinas,
a gaggle of common Europeans doing Corca Dhuibhne.
And in Dingle the blues catch me napping
like a mist sneaking up on Slea Head,
this place is full of ups and downs
and I, an amnesiac daytripper, suddenly recall
the hand that wrote in tar on the Dunquin harbour wall
Rith síos má tá ceamara agat – an irony lost
in a minor European tongue obscure to most.
And I shake off the blues on Dingle Pier,
back in Gleann Fán there is a bed for me, I know,
cloistered in a bungalow among the beehive huts;
it’s there I’ll spend the night
as there’s nowhere else to go.

Translated into English by Caoimhín Mac Giolla Léith