Meg Bateman

gaélico escocés

Meg Bateman

inglés

Envoi

Chunnaic mi eadar-theangachadh de dhàn agam   
ann an duanaire de bhàrdachd ghaoil à Alba,
agus bu neònach leam gun robh an càirdeas
nach do mhair agamsa ach trì seachdainean,
ged a luidir an t-uisge-stiùir mi fad bhliadhnachan,
an sin an ainm a’ ghaoil a mhaireas.

Bu neònaiche buileach na h-ìomhaighean,
cuid a ghineadh ann an òrain Ghàidhlig eile,
cuid a tharraing saighead a’ chomhardaidh a-nuas,
is iad nan seasamh gu borb sa Bheurla,
gun iomradh fiù ’s gum b’i a’ Ghàidhlig
a’ bhean-ghlùine no am bogha.
 
Bitheadh an tàcharan ag imeachd -
tha a chaolan dhomhsa air a sgaoileadh;  
ma labhras e ri feadhainn mun ghaol shìorraidh
gach beannachd leotha ’s guma fada beò an gaol ac’,
ach gur leamsa an taisbeanadh cinnteach àraid    
nach ionann fìrinn na beatha is fìrinn na bàrdachd.

© Meg Bateman

Envoi

I saw one of my poems translated
in a book of love poems from Scotland,
and it felt strange that an affair
that lasted only three weeks
(but in whose wake I floundered long after)
was there in the name of eternal commitment.
 
It was stranger yet to see the images,
some born of other Gaelic songs,
some brought down by the arrow of rhyme,
standing naked and incongruous in English,
with no mention that Gaelic
was either the midwife or the bow.

But let the changeling make its way –
its umbilical cord with me is cut;
if it speaks to some of enduring love
may theirs be the blessing of love that lasts,
but let this particular revelation be mine
that reality and poetic truth are not the same.

© Meg Bateman