Tairngreacht

Tairngríodh go bhfaigheadh sí bás mar seo, ag luí ina haonar, a béal ar oscailt, ‘s dabaí seile ar a haghaidh.

Ina scámhóga, tá tuamaí folmha atá líneáilte le fíochrán lofa, fíochrán atá ag scáineadh, faoi mheáchan na gcathracha.

Do chroísa, beo faoi do chraiceann, idir na néaróga, ‘s na féitheoga; mothaíonn sé an buille aisteach sin a thagann ón gcré.

Buille neamhrialta, ag árdú is ag titim; daoine ag tochailt, ag análú, ‘s do lámha sa chré chráite sin.

Ar shlí éigin, tarraingíonn sí d’anam chuici, faoin talamh, faoi na coirteacha salachair, ‘s an dríodar sin atá fágtha, ag críoch an tsaoil.

Aisling Ní Choibheanaigh Nic Eoin

Ise, a craiceann spuaiceach; glaonn sí abhaile thú.

*See Notes section (ii) for more information on this translation project

Fàidheardaireachd

(Gàidhlig translation of ‘Tairngreacht’)

Chaidh innse gum faigheadh i bàs mar seo, a’ laighe na h-aonar, a beul fosgailte, agus bleideagan seile air a h-aghaidh.

Na sgamhanan, tha tuaman falamh a tha lìonta le maothran lobhta, maothran a tha a’ sgàineadh fo chuideam nan cathair-bhaile.

Do chridhe-sa, beò fo do chraiceann, eadar na leithean, is na fèithean; tha e a’ mothachadh na buille àraid a thig on chrè.

Buille neo-riaghailteach, ag èirigh is a’ tuiteam; daoine a’ cladhach, a’ tarraing anail. is do làmhan sa chrè chràidhteach sin.

Dòigh air choreigin, bidh i a’ tarraing d’ anam thuice, fon talamh, fo na breathan salachair, is a’ ghrùid sin a tha air fhàgail, aig deireadh na beatha.

Ise, a craiceann builgeach, glaoidhidh i dhachaigh thu.

Robbie MacLeòid

Prophecy

(English translation of ‘Tairngreacht’)

Aisling Ní Choibheanaigh Nic Eoin and Ursula O’Sullivan-Dale

It was predicted that she would die like this, on her own, lying with her mouth open and flecks of spit on her face.

A look inside her lungs shows empty tombs lined with rotten tissue, shows flesh that is crumbling beneath the weight of cities.

And your heart, alive under your skin, between the nerves and the sinews. It feels the strange rhythm that comes from the clay.

An irregular thump, rising and falling, people digging and breathing, and your hands in that wounded earth.

Unknown to you, she pulls your soul towards her, deep into the ground, and through the layers of grime, and that alluvial sediment that is left, at the end of life.

She, skin blistering; she calls you home, to her.

Diougan

(Breton translation of ‘Tairngreacht’)

Diouganet e oa e varvfe evel-se, Gourvezet en hec’h-unan, He genoù digor, Ha Bannigoù skop war he dremm.

En he skevent e kaver bezioù goullo goloet gant gwiad brein danvez o vreinañ dindan pouez ar c’hêrioù.

Da galon, bev dindan da groc’hen, etre an nervennoù hag ar stirennoù; klevet a ra al lamm iskis-se o tont deus ar pri.

Ul lamm direizh a gresk hag a gouezh; tud o kleuzañ, oc’h analañ, ha da zaouarn er pri poanius se.

Mod pe vod e sach da ene daveti dindan an douar, dindan gweleadoù kramm, hag al lec’hid a chom war-lerc’h, e fin ar vuhez.

He c’hroc’hen klogoret; He az kalv d’ar gêr.

Fañch Bihan-Gallic

Glaineacht

Tá sé deacair glaineacht a bhaint amach na laethanta seo, tá gach rud monaraithe, Agus tar éis tamaill beidh fonn ort an fíor-rud a bhaint amach, is caithfidh tú tú féin isteach sa chré, Ach fiú ag an am sin, beidh roinnt de do chuid luaithrigh in adhmad silíní, le vearnais snasta,

Éist le hamhrán an traonaigh, nuair a éiríonn an aimsir níos teo, Féach ar an laghairt a léimeann ón bfhód móna a phiocann tú suas, Éist le do chorp níos minice, in áit d’intinn.

Winter’s Witch

Where will I find you Berree Dhone? Up the heights of Creg ny Mohlt or under the deep pool of Cornaa, cold, but sliced by sunlight?

stone-clad hag, summit strider midnight’s thief, cattle raider, straying ox, flaying knife, hangman’s rope, so run for your life behind the door, under the stone through the gap, across the glen, far beyond the mountain flank deep, deep down a sodden bank never catch me, never name me, no man’s tune will ever claim me though the heather blaze behind me summer’s come, you will not find me

Where will I find you Berree Dhone? On the long edge of Carraghyn or the mossy ridge of Beinn y Phott or on snow-scattered Sniaull?

Where will I find you Berree Dhone?

Lying choked on an ox’s bone, drowned for your deeds in an icy stream or caught in a tangled song?

*Berree Dhone is a mysterious ‘cailliagh’ figure of Manx folksong and story. See section (iii) of notes for more information.

Pasted papers

Ivan de Monbrison

There are shadows that are cut out with the scissors of your fingers and that form black silhouettes on the white background of the painting there are your hands resting on the table that are not yours that are the hands of another that you don't know and who's drawing a drawing that you don't see because you are blind yes you are blind and the night is blind too and the day is blind and deaf so the day doesn't hear the music that you play that weird music that you play at night on your guitar the day doesn't hear the melody that screams the day doesn't hear the song that tells the gardens planted in the spring the day does not hear the sound of the voice singing and during that time the drawing is done by itself with your hands but without you in the same way the poem is written by itself with your hands but without you you are not there you have never been there there are these shadows cut out with the scissors of your fingers and which form like black silhouettes that you paste on the white background of a painting but of a painting that we would never have been painted there is no more day there is no more head there is no more drawing there there is no more silence there is no more madness there is no more distance between us here the night has been drawn like a curtain like a curtain on a painting a curtain among others drawn on a mass grave where the dead would be living and the living would already be dead.