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 a 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 i do ghabhal
an rúta
go bhfuil barr pléisiúrtha ann.
Do chraiceann atá chomh dorcha
is slim
le síoda go mbeadh tiús veilbhite
ina shníomh
is é ar chumhracht airgid luachra
nó meadhg 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 díobháil duit
gléasadh anois ar an dtoirt
in ionad leath ban Éireann
a mhilleadh is a lot.
Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill
Nude
The long and short
of it is I’d far rather see you nude –
your silk shirt
and natty
tie, the brolly under your oxter
in case of a rainy day,
the three-piece seersucker
suit that’s so incredibly trendy,
your snazzy loafers
and, la-di-da,
a pair of gloves
made from the skin of a doe,
then, to top it all, a crombie hat
set at a rak-
ish angle – none of these add
up to more than the icing on the cake.
For, unbeknownst to the rest
of the world, behind the outward
show lies a body unsurpassed
for beauty, without so much as a wart
or blemish, but the brill-
iant slink of a wild animal, a dream-
cat, say, on the prowl,
leaving murder and mayhem
in its wake. Your broad, sinewy
shoulders and your flank
smooth as the snow
on a snow-bank.
Your back, your slender waist,
and, of course,
the root that is the very seat
of pleasure, the pleasure-source.
Your skin so dark, my beloved,
and soft
as silk with a hint of velvet
in its weft,
smelling as it does of meadowsweet
or ‘watermead’
that has the power, or so it’s said,
to drive men and women mad.
For that reason alone, if for no other,
when you come with me to the dance tonight
(though, as you know, I’d much prefer
to see you nude)
it would probably be best
for you to pull on your pants and vest
rather than send
half the women of Ireland totally round the bend.
Paul Muldoon
Do tháinig bean an leasa
le Black & Decker,
do ghearr sí anuas mo chrann.
D’fhanas im óinseach ag féachaint uirthi
faid a bhearraigh sí na brainsí
ceann ar cheann.
Tháinig m’fhear céile abhaile tráthnóna.
Chonaic sé an crann.
Bhí an gomh dearg air,
ní nach ionadh. Dúirt sé
‘Canathaobh nár stopais í?
Nó cad is dóigh léi?
Cad a cheapfadh sí
dá bhfaighinnse Black & Decker
is dul chun a tí
agus crann ansúd a bhaineas léi,
a ghearradh anuas sa ghairdín?’
Tháinig bean an leasa thar n-ais ar maidin.
Bhíos fós ag ithe mo bhricfeasta.
D’iarr sí orm cad dúirt m’fhear céile.
Dúrtsa léi cad dúirt sé,
go ndúirt sé cad is dóigh léi,
is cad a cheapfadh sí
dá bhfaigheadh sé siúd Black & Decker
is dul chun a tí
is crann ansúd a bhaineas léi
a ghearradh anuas sa ghairdín.
‘Ó,’ ar sise, ‘that’s very interesting.’
Bhí béim ar an very.
Bhí cling leis an -ing.
Do labhair sí ana-chiúin.
Bhuel, b’shin mo lá-sa,
pé ar bith sa tsaol é,
iontaithe bunoscionn.
Thit an tóin as mo bholg
is faoi mar a gheobhainn lascadh cic
nó leacadar sna baotháin
líon taom anbhainne isteach orm
a dhein chomh lag san mé
gurb ar éigin a bhí ardú na méire ionam
as san go ceann trí lá.
Murab ionann is an crann
a dh’fhan ann, slán.
Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill
As for the Quince
There came this bright young thing
with a Black & Decker
and cut down my quince-tree.
I stood with my mouth hanging open
while one by one
she trimmed off the branches.
When my husband got home that evening
and saw what had happened
he lost the rag,
as you might imagine.
‘Why didn’t you stop her?
What would she think
if I took the Black & Decker
round to her place
and cut down a quince-tree
belonging to her?
What would she make of that?’
Her ladyship came back next morning
while I was at breakfast.
She enquired about his reaction.
I told her straight
that he was wondering how she’d feel
if he took a Black & Decker
round to her house
and cut down a quince-tree of hers,
et cetera et cetera.
‘O,’ says she, ‘that’s very interesting.’
There was a stress on the ‘very’.
She lingered over the ‘ing’.
She was remarkably calm and collected.
These are the times that are in it, so,
all a bit topsy-turvey.
The bottom falling out of my belly
as if I had got a kick up the arse
or a punch in the kidneys.
A fainting-fit coming over me
that took the legs from under me
and left me so zonked
I could barely lift a finger
till Wednesday.
As for the quince, it was safe and sound
and still somehow holding its ground.
Paul Muldoon
Le tusa, pé thú féin,
an fíréan
a thabharfadh cluais le héisteacht,
b’fhéidir, do bhean inste scéil
a thug na cosa léi, ar éigean,
ó láthair an chatha.
Níor thugamair féin an samhradh linn
ná an geimhreadh.
Níor thriallamair ar bord loinge
go Meiriceá ná ag lorg ár bhfortúin
le chéile i slí ar bith
ins na tíortha teo thar lear.
Níor ghaibheamair de bharr na gcnoc
ar chapall láidir álainn dubh.
Níor luíomair faoi chrann caorthainn
is an oíche ag cur cuisne.
Ní lú ná mar a bhí tinte cnámh
is an adharc á séideadh ar thaobh na gréine.
Eadrainn bhí an fharraige mhór
atá brónach. Eadrainn
bhí na cnoic is na sléibhte
ná casann ar a chéile.
Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill
You Are
Whoever you are, you are
The real thing, the witness
Who might lend an ear
To a woman with a story
Barely escaped with her life
From the place of battle.
Spring, the sweet spring, was not sweet for us
Nor winter neither.
We never stepped aboard a ship together
Bound for America to seek
Our fortune, we never
Shared those hot foreign lands.
We did not fly over the high hills
Riding the fine black stallion,
Or lie under the hazel branches
As the night froze about us,
No more than we lit bonfires of celebration
Or blew the horn on the mountainside.
Between us welled the ocean
Waves of grief. Between us
The mountains were forbidding
And the roads long, with no turning.
Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin
