other words

Liam Ó Muirthile,
ireland

Liam Ó Muirthile was born in Cork in 1950. His poetry collections include Tine Chnámh (Sáorséal Ó Marcaigh, 1984),
which was awarded the Irish-American Cultural Institute Prize; and Dialann Bothair (Gallery, 1992). Tine Chnámh
was produced in the Project Theatre, Dublin, in 1993, followed by Fear an Tae at Andrews Lane Theatre, Dublin and
An Taidhbhearc, Galway in 1995. His novel Ar Bhruach na Laoi (Comhar, 1995) won the Duais chuimhneacháin
Sheáin Uí Éogeartaigh. He is a member of Aosdána, and lives in Dublin.

Tairseacha

Éinne amuigh thar tairseacha?
Aon tiompán ar crith
ar mhinicíocht ar bith
tríd an siosadh statach?

Táim ar an raon inchloiste is ísle
ard-dílse cogarnaíle daonna,
mar a thugaimidne domhandaigh
ar ár mbeo pláinéadach,
is gur sásamh é focail a chumadh
is a dhíchumadh go harmónach
le casúirín ar inneoin na héisteachta.

Táim ar an amhaire is ísle brí
aimpligh mo ghuí ascalach,
amhastrach eachtardhomhanda
mhadra ultrasonach HMV
mar a bhí fadó, mar atá fós
ar a chorraghiob buanmhaighnéadach
i mbéal chlosmhinicíocht an challaire.

Tabhair dúinn léas bíogtha
tríd an gceo leictreonach
is saor sinn ó gach olc
mo chogarnaíl íos-déine dB,
deonaigh dúinn nach macallaí
fuaimthoinne amháin ár nguí
ag luasghéarú trí shaol na saol
ar ais amach i gcrith mo scairte.

------------------------------

Thresholds

Anybody out there beyond the thresholds?
Any ear-drum reverberating
on any heavenly frequency
thru the hissing static?

I'm on the lowest high-fidelity
whispering range of humans
which is what we terrestrials dub ourselves
in this sublunar life,
composing words with such satisfaction,
harmonically distorting them,
hammering on the anvil of the tympanum.

I'm on the lowest strength woofer;
amplify my oscillating prayer,
the extraterrestrial barking
of the HMV ultrasonic dog
as he was in the beginning and is still
on his permanently magnetized haunches
in the audible mouth of the speaker.

Grant us one answering ultra wave
of light back
thru the electronic fog
and deliver us from all evil.
Answer my low level dB mumbling.
Grant that our prayers
are not simply the echoes
of mere trembling sound waves,
riffing back and forth
from my midriff for ever and for ever.

translated by Greg Delanty

Cad é

Táim ó sheomra go seomra
ar fud an tí
ag lorg rud éigin,
is nach mbeidh fhios agam
cad é nó
go bhfaighidh mé é.

Ní hé an stán aráin é
an plúr garbh donn
ná an plúr mín bán,
cé go dtógaim amach iad
is go gcuirim sa mheá iad
is go ndeinim builín amháin.

Ní haon leabhar a bhíos a léamh é
más buan mo chuimhne
is a leagas uaim,
cé go seasaím ag na seilfeanna
is go bhféachaim tríothu
is go dtéim ar mo ghlúine ar an urlár.

Ní haon eochair a bhí uaim í
ní rabhas ag dul amach
níor fhágas aon ní ar siúl,
cé go bhfuilim ó sheomra go seomra
ar fud an tí
ag lorg rud éigin
is nach faic é
is go bhfuilim ag déanamh bróin chiúin.

-----------------------------------

What it is

I go from room to room
around the house
looking for something,
and, to be honest, I won't know
what it is
till I find it.

It's not the bread tin,
nor the coarse brown flour,
nor the fine white flour,
though I take them out
and measure them on the scales
and bake a single loaf.

It's not any book I was devouring,
if memory serves me correctly,
that I put down absent mindedly,
although I stand at the shelves
and scan the book stacks
and fall to my knees.

It's not any missing key.
I wasn't going out.
I didn't leave anything on, although
I'm shuffling from room to room
scouring the whole house for something
and it's nothing
and I'm scouring quiet sorrow.

translated by Greg Delanty