Dán do Rosemary                                               

 

As an saol lofa seo                                                               

gabhaim leat leithscéal:                                         

as an easpa airgid atá                                             

ár siorsheilg thar pháirc                                                     

ár bpósta mar Fhionn                                             

gan trua gan chion                                                  

ag bagairt ar do shacs-chroí bog ceannúil.          

Gabhaim leat leithscéal                                         

as an teach cloch-chlaonta                                     

as fallaí de chré is de dheora déanta –                 

do dheora boga:                                                       

an chlog leat ag cogarnach                                     

ag insint bréag,                                                        

an teallach ag titim as a chéile.                             

Téim chugat ar mo leithscéal féin:                       

m’anam tuathalach, m’aigne i gcéin,                    

an aois i ngar dom, le dán i ngleic,                       

i mo gheocach sa tabhairne ag ól is ag reic.        

Thréig mé an Béarla                                               

ach leatsa níor thug me cúl:                                   

caithfidh mé mo cheird                                          

a ghearradh as coill úr:                                          

mar tá mo gharrán Béarla                                     

cran-nochta seasc:                                                                                      

ach tá súil agam go bhfuil                                      

lá do shonais ag teacht.                                          

Cuirfidh mé síoda do mhianta ort lá.                   

Aimseoimid beirt ár Meiriceá.                              

Poem for Rosemary

For this miserable life

I apologise:

for our lack of money

scrimping and scraping,

our marriage like Fionn’s

pitiless, loveless,

affecting your soft fragile heart.

I apologise

for our run-down house,

its clay walls, tear stained –

with your soft tears:

the clock is ticking

telling you lies,

the place is falling apart.

I go to you with my apology:

blundering, tactless, clueless,

with a poem in my fist,

and I always acting the yob in the pub.

I abandoned English

but I never turned my back on you:

I now must relearn my craft

from fresh woodland:

because my English copse

is leafless and bare:

but I remain hopeful

that your days of happiness are near.

Your worth will be appreciated yet.

I hope we both reach our America.

Note: This poem is taken from Michael Hartnett’s first collection in Irish, Adharca Broic, which was published in 1978 by Peter Fallon’s Gallery Press.