An Seòmar Dubh-ruadh

Robbie MacLeòid

Chaidh mo lìonadh le fàileadh cheimigeach an t-seòmair. Bha e mar mheatailt, no peatral, no fuil. Bha e fhèin aig taobh thall an t-seòmair, meataigean glan, gorm air. Dhùin mi an dorast gu sgiobalta. Nan ruigeadh solas an seòmar, sgriosadh e a h-uile càil.

Bhon chiad latha a thòisich an clas Ealain aig Àrd-Ìre, bha Anndra air m’ aire a thàladh. Cha b’ urrainn dhomh ràdh dè bh' ann mu dhèidhinn. Bha e tarraingeach na choltas, bha sin fìor, le gruag bhàn sgiobalta air, agus gàire lasrach. Ach dh'fhaoidteadh gur e mar a bha e ga ghiùlain fhèin a thug orm smaointinn air. Bha àileadh mu chuairt, mar gun robh gach nì furasta. Is ged a bha e bliadhna nas àirde na bha mise san sgoil, bha mi a’ faireachdainn mar gun robh ionnanachd air choireigin ann eadarainn. Bha an dithist againn àiteigin eadar gillean agus fir. Agus cha robh gille eile air an leithid de dh'fhaireachdainn nochdadh annam roimhe.

‘Ciamar a tha dol dhut?’ dh'fhaighnich mi, ann an leth-chagair. Ged nach robh feum againn a bhith sàmhach san t-seòmar, bha rudeigin mu dheidhinn a thug ort bhith sòlaimaichte, mar eaglais.

‘Ò,’ thuirt Anndra, a’ tionndadh. Bha teanchair aige na làimh. ‘Thu fhèin a th’ ann. Rònan, nach e?’

Ghnog mi mo cheann, ach cha robh mi cinnteach am faca e. Mar sin, thuirt mi, ‘’S e. Anndra, nach e?’

‘Sin mi,’ thuirt e. Chunnaic mi oir a ghàire tron leth-dhorchadas. ‘Tha dol gu math, tha mi smaointinn. Uill, chì sinn ann an greis, saoilidh mi.’

Chaidh mi seachad air, dhan bhocsa eile anns an robh na ceimicean. Chuirinn mo dhealbhan ann, agus, mar dhraoidheachd, no Frankenstein, bhiodh beatha ùr annta.

Dh’fheuch mi gun aire idir a tharraing dhomh fhèin, ach dh’fhairich mi mar gun robh sùilean Anndrais orm. Sheall mi ris uair no dhà, a’ dearbhadh gun robh. Bha gàire air aghaidh a bha làn mì-mhodh. Carson a bha e gam sgrùdadh mar sin?

‘Am faod mi rud aideachadh dhut?’ dh’fhaighnich e.

Nochd e rim thaobh, mar fhaileas. Bha m’ anail nam uchd. Chuir mi sìos na dealbhan dubha a bha agam nam làimh. ‘Faodaidh,’ thuirt mi. Rinn mi oidhirp air misneachd, ach bha mo ghuth fiù ’s na b’ ìsle a-nis.

‘Uill…’ thuirt Anndra. Chuir e làmh air a’ bhòrd, a’ sealltainn mun cuairt orm.

‘Tha mi rìamh air faireachdainn gun robh an leithid de dh’àite, uill…’ Sheall e gu dlùth orm, nam shùilean, is chunnaic mi na coin-fhaicaill aige na ghàire.

‘Suidheachadh car romansach a th’ ann, nach e?’

Bha mi air mo dhòigh nach nochdadh ruadh nam ghruaidhean san solas seo.

Ghabh mi anail agus sheall mi air ais air na dealbhan agam, air a’ bhogsa cheimigeach air mo bheulaibh. Cha robh anns na dealbhan ach sgàilean an-dràsta. Cò aig a bha fios dè bhiodh annta?

Ghabh mi anail eile. Bha còir agam smaointinn mun seo. Bha còir agam smaointinn mu na cridhe briste a bha Anndra air adhbhrachadh thar na bliadhna. Bha còir agam cumail orm le m’ obair, is deuchainnean ri teachd. Bha iomadh rud ann a bha còir agam dèanamh. Agus aon rud nach robh còir agam dèanamh, idir.

‘Tha, is mise,’ thuirt mi. Chuala mi Anndra a’ gàireachdainn gu socair. Dh’fhairich mi rudeigin mar bheothach ann an ribe. Chan e fiù ’s gun robh mi coma; bha mi deònach.

‘Agus am faod mi fhèin rudeigin a ràdh?’ thuirt mi. Bha mo chridhe a' sìor-bhualadh nam chom, rud a bha fiù ‘s nas àirde nam chluasan ann an sàmhchair an t-seòmair. Chunnaic mi san leth-dhorchadas Anndra a' gnogadh a chinn.

Gu slaodach, thog mi mo ghàirdean. Shìn mi mo làmh a-mach, gus an robh e a’ laighe air gualann Anndrais.

‘Tha cliù agad, Anndra,’ thuirt mi. Bha m’ anail nam uchd, is cha robh ach cagair bhuam.

‘Ò, tha, a bheil?’ thuirt e. Ìoc, a’ ghàire ud. Chuir e a’ chaoch orm, agus rudan eile cuideachd.

‘Tha,’ thuirt mi. Bha fuil na dheann timcheall mo bhodhaig, a’ bualadh nam chluasan.

‘Droch chliù, tha mi an dòchas,’ thuirt e. Bha e cho faisg orm a-nis is gun robh mi faireachdainn anail orm.

‘Fìor dhroch,’ thuirt mi.

‘’S dòcha gum bu chòir dhut stad, ma-thà,’ thuirt e.

‘’S dòcha,’ thuirt mi. Airson dearbhadh, chuir mi ris: ‘Am faod…?’

Leig e gàire às. Chuala mi fuaim na miataigean aige tighinn dheth. Phut e bhathais rim cheann. ‘Faodaidh’.

Chuir mi mo làmh ri cùl amhaich, ga tharraing thugam. Dh’fhairich mi làmh làidir air mo chruachann. Chuir e a bhilean teatha orm, agus bha gach nì dorcha, le meatailt, is peatral, agus fuil. Bha sinn cho sàmhach ri diùird. Nan ruigeadh solas an seòmar, sgriosadh e a h-uile càil.

Mid Summer

Cian Dunne

When they find him, he will be sleeping in the sun. They could have found him easily, if only they had known where to look.

Not under his father’s bed, no.

But in the garden, at the back of the house, avoiding the bees in the shadow shrouded over the grass by the trees.

It is a mid summer.

The Autumn hawkbits sparsely populate the blades that they always raise themselves above.

And most graceful of all, with translucent wings, that ugly insect walks the tightrope of the washing line

Hanged by his mother

Strung like a hammock between each eye, Stretching from the corner of the door til it disappears through leaves.

Shadow extends from the house over the grass and gravel, Grovelling

Away from him.

Come back here! Where are you getting off to! They must have known? Did you exceed yourself in that exhibition of enervation? Better than we silently expected? Or the same as… ?

Then through the flaked gates Finally Come

Dance with me, Dad!

Barefoot, if you like, in the garden you just cut fine.

Aimsir

He cannot– he is too busy preparing the rims of the room for his friends so they might say it is tidy, just this once. With eyes for shards of glass, green meshed with grass, ach ní raibh sé riamh ar meisce.

An smólach

Dar liom, bheadh sé fíor-bhinn ceol an smólaigh a chloisteáil ag bomaite mo bhás.

Dár ndóigh, bheadh me ar mo shuaimhneas in áit faoi ghruaim.

I lár sonas, in áit i lár tinneas

Dá gcloisfinn athrá gleoite an cara beag donn Roimh go ndúnfainn mo chluasa go deo.

Clare Ní Lanagáin

Biographical information

Niamh Hughes is an Irish visual artist and maker currently based in Edinburgh. Having a flair for the interdisciplinary, Hughes has worked with painting, costume, moving image and more. From her undergraduate degree at the National College of Art and Design, a residency programme at the Edinburgh Sculpture Workshop and an apprenticeship at the Edinburgh Open Workshop, Hughes has developed an expansive set of skills and artwork.

Annie Kissack recently retired from teaching at the Bunscoill Ghaelgagh, the Manx-medium primary school at St Johns on the Isle of Man. A former pupil of Mona Douglas, that renowned collector of traditional Manx song, dance and folklore, Annie writes and arranges Manx Gaelic songs for her own very successful choir, Caarjyn Cooidjagh. She is the President of Yn Chruinnaght Celtic festival. She began writing poetry about six years ago and in 2018 won the title of Fifth Manx Bard. Many of her folklore-related poems have been made available online, thanks to Culture Vannin, from whom she was also awarded a grant to publish a collection of her own Manx-themed poetry, Mona Sings, in 2022. The collection, which includes several poems in Manx Gaelic, is available from https://www.bridge-bookshop.com.

’S e sgrìobhaiche agus acadaimigeach a th’ ann an Robbie MacLeòid, a bhios a’ cruthachadh sa Ghàidhlig agus sa Bheurla. Tha e foillsichte an Gutter, New Writing Scotland, 404 Ink, agus STEALL, am measg àiteannan eile. Tha e an-dràsda ag obair air Deir i, ceòldrama mu Dheirdire agus Mhic Uisnich.

Fañch Bihan-Gallic is originally from An Arzh, in Lower-Brittany. He studied Gaelic medieval literature, and Scottish Gaelic ethnography and language, and now lives and works in the Outer Hebrides.

Killian Beashel is from Co. Wicklow and has recently completed a Master’s degree at the University of St Andrews. His work has been published in Aimsir and The Steady Drip.

Aimsir

Erin Craine (she/they) is a queer Liverpudlian-Manx writer currently studying Creative Writing in the North West, where she specialises in television and theatre scripts. The poetry included in this edition of Aimsir comes from a collection in which they attempt to examine how place and landscape can relate to memory and identity, and her status as an outsider: Manx in Liverpool, and Liverpudlian in the Isle of Man. Currently writing a comedy-drama exploring masculinity, stereotype, and cultural pride set in her native Liverpool, her other credits include the one-act play Faith, various short films, and a children’s picturebook reflecting her experiences growing up with undiagnosed ADHD. When she’s not hunched over writing on her laptop, Erin spends her free time sewing, eating crisps and making copious amounts of soup for their non-profit free food initiative, formed to aid students during the cost-of-living crisis.

Sarah Kelly is an Irish artist born in Kilkenny and currently living in Cork. Her work often centres on play, joy, magic and the natural world. She believes in the power and necessity of art to build community and create action. She is excited for the stretch in the evenings. You can see more of her work on Instagram, @sarah.kellyart.

Cian Dunne recently graduated from a degree in English and Russian at Trinity College Dublin. In his final year, he edited the Trinity Journal of Literary Translation. Faoi láthair, tá sé ag múineadh Gaeilge do dhaltaí meánscoile, ag scríobh, agus ag smaoineamh ar an samhradh.

Ivan de Monbrison is a squirrel born in a tree, which has been lobotomised before birth, inside the womb of an apricot. He plays the guitar, though awfully, writes some texts when he’s depressed, and dabbles in painting using only weird colours. He’s currently busy breeding a colony of wild mice in his studio in Paris, and feeding a crow as well, mice and crow both being fed exclusively with peanuts. The mice seem to have lost all sense of pride and dignity in this dreadful process.

Jane Paul is an Aotearoa New Zealand poet, actress and teacher of Irish descent currently living in Brussels. Her first collection of poetry, Ebbs&Floods, was released in October 2022; inspired by the callous and curing west coast of Ireland. Her work has been published internationally, but mostly she finds solace in the untamed or extended eye contact with people on public transport.

Jamie O’Toole is a writer and singer from Mayo. She is currently living in Liverpool.

Notes

(i) This line is taken from the piece ‘Night in Arran’, published in the 1896 ‘Book of the Summer’, the only summer edition released by Patrick Geddes and William Sharp throughout the lifespan of The Evergreen: A Northern Seasonal. Published more than a year after the Spring issue, the ‘Book of the Summer’ is similarly punctuated by a number of delicate illustrations, and contains writing of a seasonal focus, but it contains an intensity that is not seen in the Spring issue. This intensity is balanced between critical analyses of the natural world, and of humanity’s place within it, and those calls for a return to ‘Celtic’ ways of living, something which the turn of the century exacerbated.

(ii)

‘Tairngreacht’ was born out of an interest in the ceremony of poetic lamentation within the Irish cultural tradition, but here, the body being mourned is substituted for an image of the earth. There are four linguistic versions of it, the original being the Irish. It was then translated into Gàidhlig by our wonderful Gàidhlig editor Robbie MacLeòid, and into Breton by Fañch Bihan-Gallic. Finally, the rough English version was originally laid out by Aisling and revised by Ursula O’Sullivan-Dale, taking the form that you read in these pages today. The layout of these pieces plays an important role in their consumption. The Irish and Gàidhlig versions sit side by side, so that the similarities and differences between these two Goidelic languages can be studied with a relatively uninterrupted flow. Our intention with this is to encourage more projects in which English is de-centred within representations of translated work. The spread in the following two pages contains the English and Breton versions, two languages that differ immensely in their linguistic structure. Their interaction highlights the value of translation and its ability to create entirely distinct pieces of work.

(iii)

I first met this strange character in a traditional Gaelic song local to the hilly country to the north east of the Isle of Man. She is certainly a creature of the mountains as the chorus indicates:

‘Hemmayd roin gys y clieau dy hroggal y voain as dy yeeaghyn vel Berree Dhone sthie er yn oie.’

(Let’s go to the mountain to raise the turf to see if Berree Dhone is at home this night.) Elsewhere in the song, the peaks she haunts are listed.

Most of the song makes little narrative sense as a whole but it’s full of weird imagery, perhaps from several sources. So what is known of this woman? She’s a shape shifter, looming up behind a door or lying buried beneath a rocky slab; sometimes, a giant strider of the high peaks, sometimes a yellow-clad figure riding a goat! To her has been attributed leadership of a coven of witches and a pool in a glen. She is a cattle stealer, but there are also hints that she herself can transform into a cow! She’s adept at avoiding capture whatever. Inevitably she remains a subject of some academic discussion. And a good subject for a poem.

As a singer and writer, I feel very much in the position of that hardy chorus of onlookers, trying and failing to make sense of what I’m witnessing. Rather like Manx Gaelic itself, so much traditional lore has been lost over the years that I’m very aware of the fragmentary nature of what remains. But as a poet, that can appeal. As does Berree Dhone herself; her refusal to let an easy meaning be ascribed to her. Whether she’s based on a historical figure or an amalgam of much older traditions, I’ve chosen to portray her as an independent spirit of the mountains in winter. And now it’s May, she’s off and good luck to her!