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Fortnight Publications Ltd.
PoetryAuthor(s): Máire Mhac An TsaoiSource: Fortnight, No. 342 (Sep., 1995), p. 39Published by: Fortnight Publications Ltd.Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25558564 .
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A Bhean Lan de Stuaim
A bhean lan de stuaim
coingibh uaim do lamh; ni fear gniomha sinn,
ce taoi tinn dar ngradh.
Feach ar liath dem fholt,
feach mo chorp gan luth
feach ar thraoch dem fhuil?
cread re bhfuil do thnuth?
Na saoil me go saobh,
aris na claon do cheann;
biodh ar ngradh gan ghniomh
go brath, a shiodh sheang.
Druid do bheal 6m bheal?
doiligh an sceal do chor?
na biom cneas re cneas:
tig on teas an tol.
Do chul craobhach cas,
do rose glas mar dhrucht,
do chioch chruinngheal bhlaith,
tharraingeas mian sul.
Gach gniomh gach gnfomh cuirp is luighe id chuilt shuain
do-ghean fein tred ghradh, a bhean lan de stuaim.
A bhean Lan de Stuaim
(From the Irish of Seathrun Ceitinn)
Will you be sensible, girl! And take that hand away;
I'm not the man for the task,
Be love-sick as you may.
Look how my hair is gray,
Bodily I'm unfit
Even my blood runs slow?
What can you hope from this?
Pray do not think me cruel,
Oh! do not hang your head,
Of course I will always love
You, but not in bed.
Let us break up this kiss,
Tho' it be hard to say, Let us forbear to touch,
Warmth to desire gives way.
Your curly, clustered poll, Your eyes more green than dew,
Your fair white rounded breasts,
These are incitements too.
Everything but the one?
Sharing your body's quilt? I would do for your love,
Everything?short of guilt.
Taisigh Agat Fein Do Phog
Taisigh agad fein do phog, a inghean 6g is geal dead;
ar do phoig ni bhfaghaim bias,
congaibh uaim amach do bheal!
Pog is romhillse na mil
fuaras 6 mhnaoi fhir tre ghradh; bias ar phoig eile da heis
ni bhfagha me go dti an brach.
Go bhfaicear an bhean-soin fein
do thoil einMhic De na ngras, ni charabh bean tsean na 6g,
6s i a pog ata mar ta.
Taisigh Agat Fein Do Phog
Keep to yourself your kisses,
Bright teeth and parted lip, Keep your mouth away from me,
I have no mind for your kiss.
A kiss more sweet than honey From the wife of another man
Has left without taste all kisses
That were since the world began.
Till, and please God I may? I see that woman again?
Her kiss being as it was?
I ask no other till then.
Duibhe Id Mhailghibh
Duibhe id mhailghibh, grios id ghruadhaibh, gurma id roscaibh, reidhe it fholt,
gaoth ag iomramh do chuil chraobhaigh, uidh fhionnbhan an
aonaigh ort.
Mna fear nach aidmheochadh t'fheachain
ar h'aghaidh ag fighe a bhfolt;
slighe ag mearaibh tre dhlaoi dhaghfhuilt ag mnaoi ag deanamh amhairc ort.
Duibhe Id Mhailghibh
Black eye-brow and the cheek an ember glowing, Blue eye beneath the glossy head of hair,
Wind-ruffled now?O lad, 'tis easy knowing Whom women's glances follow at this fair.
And she whose wedded eye dares not to linger,
Shaking the loosened locks about her face,
Lifts up the silken lattice with a finger, To gaze her fill, unguessed at by disgrace.
MAIRE MHAC AN TSAOl (b Dublin 1922) Believed to be the oldest
poet now publishing as
gaelge. These translations of classical gaelic poetry will be published in a collection
by Fortnight Educational Trust in November.
SEPTEMBER 1995 FORTNIGHT 39
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