2017-08-19

Graifítí an Lae

Dá mhéid dlíthe agus srianta atá ann

is ea is boichte a bheidh na daoine.

Dá ghéire iad a gcuid arm

is ea is mo trioblóid a bheidh sa tír.

An Bealach (Dao)


Ar nós go leor ainrialaithe a tháinig ina ndiaidh, féachann na Daoigh ar an gcruinne agus í ag síorathrú. Staid is ea an réaltacht, staid atá ina próiseas, níl aon ní daingean. Chomh maith leis sin, tá coincheap dialachtaiciúil acu: athrú mar idirghníomhú idir fórsaí atá in aghaidh a chéile. Gabhann fuinneamh gan stad idir dhá mhol, yin agus yang. Ag an am céanna, cuirtear béim ar aontacht an nádúir agus gach rud ag teacht le chéile ann. Tá an nádur neamhspleách agus neamhchruthaithe; ní gá cruthaitheoir comhfhiosach a shamhlú. Is dearcadh é seo a mheabhródh an fealsamh Gréagach Heraclitus duit gan trácht ar an gcur síos ar an gcruinne a thugann an fhisic nua-aimseartha dúinn. An éiceolaíocht shóisialta nua-aimseartha a chuireann béim ar aontacht san éagsúlacht, fás orgánach agus ord nádúrtha, is léargas breise í ar chruinneshamhail na nDaoch.

Josh

2017-08-14

Rásaíocht ar an tSráid



 Tá Chevy seasca naoi agam le trí nócha sé
Cinn sorcóra is Hurst ar an urlár
Ag feitheamh anocht thíos sa chlós páirceála
Lasmuigh den Seven-Eleven ‘tá:
Mise ‘s mo chara Sonny thógamar í ón mbonn
Agus bíonn sé liom ó áit go háit
Is ar son an airgid é is sin a bhfuil ann
Is sin mar ‘bhíonn againne ó lá go lá.

Anocht, anocht tá an stráice i gceart
Is beidh pléascadh ann mar táimse faoi dháir
Tá an samhradh ann, gach ní i gceart
Le haghaidh rásaíocht’ ar an tsráid.

Bíonn an t-aicsean uainn gach uile lá
Is clúdaímidne an stát thoir thuaidh
Nuair a dhúntar an stráic’ ritear iad ar an tsráid
Ó na bóithríní tine is lú


Tá daoine a éiríonn as an rás
Is faigheann siad bás de réir a chéile gach lá
Daoine a dhéanann naoi go dtí a cúig
Roimh dóibh rásaíocht ar an tsráid

Anocht, anocht tá an stráice i gceart
Is beidh pléascadh ann mar táimse faoi dháir
Glaoigh os ard ar fud an domhain, bí ag rásaíocht ar an tsráid.

Do bhuaileas léi fadó ar an stráic’
I gCamaro bhí, leis an mboc ó L.A.
Shéideas an Camaro de mo dhroim is chuaigh mé féin is mo stór i gcéin
Ach féach na roic atá faoi shúile mo ghrá
Is caoineann go gcodlaíonn sí istoích’
Abhaile liom tá an tigh faoi smúit
Osnaíonn sí, Stóirín ‘bhfuil tú ceart go leor,
Ina suí sa phóirse i dtigh a daid
Na brionglóidí aici á ndó
Ag stánadh ar an oíche go deo
Na súile a deir gur fuath leo a bheith beo
Do na stróinséirí uile is d’aingil an luais
I dtír challánach seo na n-óg
Anocht me féin is mo stór, síos, chun na farraige síos
Ár lámha á ní, ó bhó.

An mótarbhealach sé tá geal
As ár mbealach, mister, fág an áit,
An samhradh ann, agus seo ár seal
Le haghaidh rásaíocht’ ar an tsráid.

"Racing In The Street"


I got a sixty-nine Chevy with a 396
Fuelie heads and a Hurst on the floor
She's waiting tonight down in the parking lot
Outside the Seven-Eleven store
Me and my partner Sonny built her straight out of scratch
And he rides with me from town to town
We only run for the money got no strings attached
We shut 'em up and then we shut 'em down

Tonight, tonight the strip's just right
I wanna blow 'em off in my first heat
Summer's here and the time is right
For racing in the street

We take all the action we can meet
And we cover all the north east state
When the strip shuts down we run 'em in the street
From the fire roads to the interstate
Some guys they just give up living
And start dying little by little, piece by piece
Some guys come home from work and wash up
And go racing in the street

Tonight, tonight the strip's just right
I wanna blow 'em all out of their seats
Calling out around the world, we're going racing in the street

I met her on the strip three years ago
In a Camaro with this dude from L.A.
I blew that Camaro off my back and drove that little girl away
But now there's wrinkles around my baby's eyes
And she cries herself to sleep at night
When I come home the house is dark
She sighs "Baby did you make it all right"
She sits on the porch of her daddy's house
But all her pretty dreams are torn
She stares off alone into the night
With the eyes of one who hates for just being born
For all the shut down strangers and hot rod angels
Rumbling through this promised land
Tonight my baby and me we're gonna ride to the sea
And wash these sins off our hands

Tonight tonight the highway's bright
Out of our way mister you best keep
'Cause summer's here and the time is right
For racing in the street

2017-08-13

Domingos José Soares Rebelo (1873-1922)

Fia-Chailleach

Samhlaigh duine de na mná gránna sin
colainn chraptha, gialla tite,
srón chromógach mhíchumtha, fiacla ag gobadh amach,
braoithe fiata dlútha bána,

Dlaoithe fada giobacha suaracha
ag titim thar a guaillí cama,
lámha meata agus méara cranraithe,
míle splanc ag éalú as a dhá súil.

Sceitse den bháirseach lofa é sin
í á léiriú le gualach.
Arsa an duine stuama a d’fheicfeadh í, ‘A leithéid de bhrúid!’

An gnáthdhuine, beireann ar mhaide, gearrann fíor na croise air féin
is ar sé de mhonabhar: “Mo ghraidhin í! Bean téagartha!
Is treise í ná Rí Solamh!’

The Witch

Imagine one of those vile old women
 shrunken body, sunken jaws,
aquiline and ugly nose, jutting teeth,
thick, fierce and white eye-brows,

Long, shaggy and squalid tresses,
crowding over her bent shoulders,
shrunken hands and knotted fingers,
her eyes blaze out a thousand sparks.

This is the sketch of that vile shrew
delineated only in charcoal.
The serious man see her and exclaims “What a beast!”

The common man grabs a stick,
blesses himself and mutters “Hail! Such a tough woman!
More powerful than King Solomon!!!”

Slánú

(Chrom sé a cheann agus thug uaidh a spiorad, Eoin, 19:30)

A cheann cromtha, é ag foghlaim an bháis,
slán á rá aige den uair dheireanach
-    siombail den fhiúntas lonrach –
an Fáidh ardchéimiúil, Dia ina Dhuine.

Chrith an domhan ar a insí suaracha
 an duairceas ina bhrat anuas air,
eirmín ina néal
ó Gheitséamainí go Calvaire

Á! Uafás! Lá na barbarachta!
Muire ag geonaíl
i ndeireadh na feide: ‘Mo chreach!’
An taoiseach céid ag breathnú ar íobairt seo
an anama ghlé agus liúnn a choinsias os ard
‘Dar mo lámh, ní fhéadfadh éinne é a fhulaingt
ach Mac Dé féin.’

Redemption

(And he bowed his head and gave up his spirit. Jn., 19:30)
Head bowed, dying,
he had uttered his last goodbye,
 - a symbol of all that is worthy and radiant -
the eminent Prophet, the Man-God.

The earth shook on its mean hinges
gloom enveloped it like a shroud,
ermine turned to pall
from Gethsemane to Calvary!

Ah! Horror! What a barbaric moment!
Disconsolate, Mary
murmured between sobs: “O me!”
The centurion beheld the host of innocence
sacrificed, and with a hand over his conscience
cried out “Only the Son of God
can suffer so.”

(Almanach de Recreio, Nova Goa, edited by Carmo Caraciolo Coelho, 1893)



An tAinrialaí

Tigh tábhairne ainnis agus diabhal bocht
darbh ainm Tadeu ina shuí sa doras
oíche gheimhridh is é ag machnamh  . . .
cad air? . . .  cá bhfios.

Taobh leis bhí laindéar,
sháigh sé a lámh thanaí  ina phóca,
tharraing amach scian agus d’fhógair
‘Díoltas go deo!’ le fuarchúis an aindiachaí!

Agus chuir sé leis: ‘Obair gan mhaith í obair an bháicéara;
Triallfad ar ghiúistís na cathrach féachaint an gcabhródh sé liom
is cóisteoir a dhéanamh díom;

Mura ndéanfaidh, má dhéanann sé neamhshuim díom,
leis an laindéar agus leis an scian seo
Beidh marú is loisceadh ann anocht is go brách!’
 

The Anarchist

At the door of a miserable tavern
a poor devil named Tadeu
could be seen sitting, one winter night
pondering… who knows what?

By his side he had a lantern,
he thrust his bony hand into his pocket,
pulled out a knife, and “Eternal vengeance”
 he exclaimed with an atheist’s indifference!

Then he added “The work of a baker
is bad; I am going to find out if the municipal magistrate
will help me and make me his coachman;

if he does not, if he disregards me,
with this lantern, with this knife
I will cause fires and death without end!!!”


Almanaque Litterário, 1895. Bastora, Goa, edited by J. do R. Crisólogo Borges, 1894.

2017-08-12

False Markets (Margaí Falsa)

An English translation by Gabriel Rosenstock of Margaí Falsa, a poem by the late Danny Sheehy.

This poem was published in his first volume of poems, Súil Seilge (Coiscéim 2008) and reprinted in Poetry Ireland Review (No. 122). It reveals a philosophy that can only be defined as the native anarchism of the Gael.
 

 False Markets

Never got it. Still don’t get it,
I’ll never get it,
don’t really want to get it;
Footsie, Iseq Overall Index, Dow Jones,
sell off of equities, financial centres,
stock market, shares, stock bonds,
the Irish market down three per cent,
trading, marketing, buying and selling
on the false markets of the world.
How can I get my head around it
when I see no one at all buying or selling,
nothing but spectres in silk suits
tussling and scrambling in a flurry.
How good is the fire and something to chew on.

Don’t know where Wall Street is
Hong Kong or Singapore
but there are places I know well:
Sliabh Bhaile an Chalaidh
and Portach an Fhearainn, An Leacain,
Newcastle, Sheffield, Dagenham of Ford fame
and the Middle East
because that’s where
I’ve always got
my turf and coal for the fire,
a fork and a knife
to deliver food to my mouth,
diesel and petrol
to keep the old jalopy on the road
as I travel from coast to coast.
How good is the fire and something to chew on.

What care I for Wall Street
without a spud or a scallion to its name.
Canary Wharf I heard of – who hasn’t –
where the IRA planted a bomb
splintering the minds of silken spectres.
How good is the fire and something to chew on.

What’s all this fuss about Dow Jones?
why such demand
for these ludicrous markets
not a loaf of bread to be got or a gallon of oil –
it’s all trickery, treachery and fear.
There’s some fairy goings on at work here
it seems to me! All stuck in their power game
by dint of dark magic, deception and gambling
on the folly of life’s damned stock.
It’s all jiggery-pokery, a play on words
as the air burns and the skies –
God’s own children ravished alive.
How good is the fire and something to chew on.

Forget world trade
let’s just live within our means,
give a helping hand to our neighbour in time of need,
Serve the local community and the meitheal.
Buy, sell and exchange as need demands
and bring home the bacon.
We have all we require
for a night’s sleep, health and contentment,
a glowing hearth, warmth . . . food.
How good is the fire and something to chew on.
 =============================

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Contemporary_anarchism

2017-08-11

Jörg Heidenberger

Jörg Heidenberger
fiafraigh
fiafraigh go dtí go dtite an masc:
cé mé
ask
keep asking until the mask falls off:
who am I
ρώτα συνέχεια
μέχρι να πέσει η μάσκα:
ποιος είμαι εγώ

Leagan Gréigise: Sarah Thilykou

2017-08-10

Krishnamurphy agus Ashtavakra

Ainmnigh duine amháin
(seachas tú fein)
a chonaic an solas
arsa na deisceabail, go himpíoch.
Ashtavakra, arsa Krishnamurphy, gan smaoineamh.

Conas is féidir a bheith ar nós Ashtavakra
an cheist atá acu go léir.


Líontar Krishnamurphy le hatrua.
Le bheith cosúil leis siúd, ar sé,
ní mór daoibh a bheith cam –
chomh cam le hadharc reithe!

Cam?
Baineadh siar go mór as na deisceabail.

Tagann sibh anseo le bhur gcolainn fhoirfe
agus sibh ag súil leis an solas?
Le bheith ar nós Ashtavakra
ní mór daoibh a bheith níos caime na corcscriú!

 

Krishnamurphy and Ashtavakra

Name one enlightened person
(apart from yourself)
the disciples ask, pleadingly.
Ashtavakra! says Krishnamurphy, without thinking.

How do we become like Ashtavakra?
The question on everyone’s lips.

Krishnamurphy is filled with compassion.
To be like him, he says,
you must be crooked –
as crooked as a ram’s horn!

Crooked?
The disciples are aghast.

You come here with your perfect bodies
and expect to be enlightened?
To be like Ashtavakra you must be
crookeder than a corkscrew!

2017-08-09

A Ego Basctha ag Krishnamurphy

Tvuíteáil Krishnamurphy a chuid deisceabal:
Tá sé basctha agam!
Smidiriríní, a chairde ionúine!
Faic fágtha!

Fuair na meáin gaoth an fhocail
Is dhein cosán dearg go dtí a dhoras.

An fíor, a Krishnamurphy?
Tá d’ego basctha go hiomlán agat, an bhfuil?

D’fhéach Krishnamurphy orthu go nimhneach:
Nach bhfuil meas ar bith agaibh orm?!
Tugaigí Sri Sri Krishnamurphy-ji orm!
Sea, sea, sea: tá sé basctha agam!
Is d’at a ucht le bród.
 

Krishnamurphy Smashes His Ego

Krishnamurphy tweeted his disciples:
I have smashed it!
Smithereens, my beloved ones!
Nothing left!

The press got wind of it
And beat a path to his door.

Is it true,
Krishnamurphy?
You have completely smashed the ego?

Krishnamurphy looked at them with disgust:
Have you no respect?!
Call me Sri Sri Krishnamurphy-ji!
Yes, yes, yes: I have smashed it!
His chest swelling with pride.