St. Patrick's Day
- Thread starter moreluck
- Start date
oldngray
nowhere special
I think it is in Boston area.
PT Stewie
"Big Fella"
Iascaire is ea m’athair le ceart
Conas ná raibh a fhios againn cheana
agus diamhair na mara
chomh glé sin ina shúil?
Lá an adhlactha, iompraíonn sé
doircheacht mhoch na maidine
ar an trá sin a shíneann
ó dhoras an tséipéil
go dtí bruach an tsaoil.
Siúlann thar an slua
atá bailithe sa chlós,
a chois báite sa ghaineamh
gan cabhair a iarraidh
ó éinne dá chlann mhór mhac.
Ní thuigimid an fharraige fós,
dar leis, a cneastacht ná a racht.
Tá naomhóg an bhróin
bun os cionn ar a ghualainn
chomh dubh le fuil théachta,
an fharraige ag fiuchadh
le deora goirt
a loiscfeadh súil na gréine.
Scarann tonn na sochraide roimis
is cuireann sé a dheartháir
sa pholl atá tochailte
aige féin is an ngealaigh
ó aréir. Nuair a shiúlann
ón uaigh ar ais,
tá gile na dtonn
is uaigneas an domhain i ngleic
i súil ghlas mo shinsir.
Conas ná raibh a fhios againn cheana
agus diamhair na mara
chomh glé sin ina shúil?
Lá an adhlactha, iompraíonn sé
doircheacht mhoch na maidine
ar an trá sin a shíneann
ó dhoras an tséipéil
go dtí bruach an tsaoil.
Siúlann thar an slua
atá bailithe sa chlós,
a chois báite sa ghaineamh
gan cabhair a iarraidh
ó éinne dá chlann mhór mhac.
Ní thuigimid an fharraige fós,
dar leis, a cneastacht ná a racht.
Tá naomhóg an bhróin
bun os cionn ar a ghualainn
chomh dubh le fuil théachta,
an fharraige ag fiuchadh
le deora goirt
a loiscfeadh súil na gréine.
Scarann tonn na sochraide roimis
is cuireann sé a dheartháir
sa pholl atá tochailte
aige féin is an ngealaigh
ó aréir. Nuair a shiúlann
ón uaigh ar ais,
tá gile na dtonn
is uaigneas an domhain i ngleic
i súil ghlas mo shinsir.
PT Stewie
"Big Fella"
My father is really a fisherman
How did we not know already,
when the deep mystery of the sea
shines so brightly in his eyes?
On the day of the burial, he carries
the early morning dark
on that beach that stretches
from the church door
to the edge of the world.
Walks past the crowd
that has gathered in the yard,
his feet sunk in sand,
asking no help
from any of his many sons.
We still don’t understand the sea,
he says, its kindness or its anger.
The naomhóg of sorrow
is upside down on his shoulders,
as black as clotted blood,
the ocean boiling
with salt tears
that would burn the eye of the sun.
The funeral-wave parts
and he buries his brother
in the hole
he dug up with the moon
the night before. When he walks
back from the grave,
the brightness of the sea
and the loneliness of the world
grapple in my father’s green eyes.
How did we not know already,
when the deep mystery of the sea
shines so brightly in his eyes?
On the day of the burial, he carries
the early morning dark
on that beach that stretches
from the church door
to the edge of the world.
Walks past the crowd
that has gathered in the yard,
his feet sunk in sand,
asking no help
from any of his many sons.
We still don’t understand the sea,
he says, its kindness or its anger.
The naomhóg of sorrow
is upside down on his shoulders,
as black as clotted blood,
the ocean boiling
with salt tears
that would burn the eye of the sun.
The funeral-wave parts
and he buries his brother
in the hole
he dug up with the moon
the night before. When he walks
back from the grave,
the brightness of the sea
and the loneliness of the world
grapple in my father’s green eyes.
1BROWNWRENCH
Amatuer Malthusian
My Grandmother's maiden name was Fitzgerald. I see there aren't many Irish in living in the Dakotas. But then again, nobody does.
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