Translated by Bernie Kenny:
They make no films here,
no mock-up villages.
When our Cill Rialaig dies
weather and moss bury it.
When our Blasket empties
then that’s that.
You cannot whistle and eat the yellow meal.
Machaire Rabhartaigh stretches a hand
towards Inis Bó Finne
and his kinsman, Tory, nine miles out,
keeps them both afloat.
Waves slam together,
northerly against westerly,
palms meet, elbows on the sea-bed,
their game a test of strength,
their play a smiling treachery.
There is no talk of grants
or cultural foundations,
the mail still comes from Glasgow.
People make a living,
put outboard motors in their canvas curraghs
and pray at Mary’s shrine by the quay-side
with trousers rolled calf-high.
Men stack lobster pots of plastic and cement.
At twilight they talk quietly,
go home tired,
another day done.
Original Version:
An Lá a Thuirling an Taoiseach ar an Iarthuaisceart
Ní dhéantar scannáin anseo,
Ní thógtar baile bréige.
Cill Rialaig dá bhfaighfeadh bás,
Aimsir agus caonach a chuirfeadh.
Blascaod dá mbánófaí, b’shin é – tá sin againn.
Is deacair a bheith ag feadaíl agus ag ithe mine.
Síneann an Mhachaire Rabhartaigh a lámh i dtreo
Inis Bó finne is a dheártháir mór, Toraigh, naoi míle amach,
Coinníonn ar an tsnámh iad.
Buaileann na tonnta le chéile, aduaidh in éadan aniar,
Bos le chéile, uileann le grinneall
I gcleasa lúith agus nirt agus grinn agus feille.
Caint níl ann ar fhondúireacht, ach tig an post ó Ghlaschú.
Tá na daoine beo, ag cur Yamaha i dtóin an bháid,
Ag rá an phaidrín ag scrín Mhuire ag barr an ché
- bríste fillte go glúin siar –
Ag tógáil chruach de photaí plaisteach agus suiminte gliomach,
Ag caint go ciúin sa chlapsholas
Ar a mbealach abhaile, tuirseach,
Lá eile curtha isteach acu.
Copyright: Gréagóir O’ Dúill
From the collection ‘Gone to Earth’
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