Aonghas MacNeacail 
Translator

on Lyrikline: 10 poems translated

from: gaélico escocês to: inglês

Original

Translation

seo mo dhan

gaélico escocês | Aonghas MacNeacail

seo mo dhan
a bhi nam bhard
a seinn gu h-ard
is gaoth na
buidhre seideadh

seo mo chas
a bhi nam bhard
a seinn gu h-ard
gun chluas a bheir
dhomh eisdeachd

seo mo thlaths
a bhi nam bhard
a seinn gu h-ard
am briathran
siubhlach greiseach

oir seo mo dhan
is mi nam bhard,
bhi seinn gu h-ard,
a dh’aindeoin
leor no eiginn

© Aonghas MacNeacail

this is my poem/destiny

inglês

it is my fate
to be a bard
who sings out loud,
although unhearing
winds are blowing

this is my state -
i am a poet
who sings out loud
when no ear wants
to listen

this my delight
to be a poet
who sings out loud
my words are
supple starbright

this is my poem
it is my trade,
to sing out loud,
whether in
glut or famine

© Aonghas MacNeacail

làir gheal aig ciaradh

gaélico escocês | Aonghas MacNeacail

làir gheal
air bràighe liath
am bial na h-oidhche
eadar tàmh agus luaths
cho bàn ri bruadar

chan eil càil ri innse
ach gur ise
làir gheal
air bràighe liath
am bial na h-oidhche
agus
àilleachd dhìomhair an deilbh
àilleachd eagallach an deilbh
agus
an fheitheamh dhorcha
gu briseadh là

© Aonghas MacNeacail

white mare at dusk

inglês

white mare
on a sallow brae
at night fall
between stillness and speed
as pale as a dream

there’s nothing to tell
but that she’s a
white mare
on a sallow brae
at night fall
and
the mysterious beauty of the image
the frightening beauty of the image
and
the darkened wait
for break of day

© Aonghas MacNeacail

leanabh gréine, leanabh gealaich

gaélico escocês | Aonghas MacNeacail

is d’aodann aig an uinneag,
a leanaibh cuimhne ,
’s tu a cunntas nan lòineag

is d’aodann aig an uinneag,
a leanaibh gréine,
le do shùilean mór òrach

mar lòchrain anns am faighear
an leus nach caochail
tromh dhuibhre na h-éiginn

do thiodhlac a bhi dlùthadh
ri craobh nan lainnir,
air raon geal do léirsinn

do chùlaobh ris an uinneig
is sìneadh ciaraidh
a ghleidheas do stòras

do cheann air a chluasag,
a leanaibh gealaich.
na do phlaidein de dhòchas

© Aonghas MacNeacail

child of the sun, child of the moon

inglês

and your face at the window,
child of memory,
as you count the snowflakes

and your face at the window,
child of the sun,
with your great eyes of gold

like the lantern which harbours
an unchanging flame
through the darkness of need

your reward to approach, now,
the sparkling tree
on your vision’s white fields

and your back’s to the window
as enclosing dusk
secures your treasures

your head on the pillow,
child of the moon,
in your blanket of hopes

© Aonghas MacNeacail

fan thusa

gaélico escocês | Aonghas MacNeacail

fan thusa
far a bheil na guthan a seinn
mar sheann iarunn
is na sùilean mar
sgàthan neon

ged a lìonadh tu gach
          uair is latha le
fios is foghlum
cha chuir an eanchainn thairis,
cuir an sgoil a fhuair thu
          fada sìos
an clais dubh domhainn nan
dod ’s nan tinneas mùchte,
bi na tràighean sligeach fhathast
fo do chasan rùisgte, deiseil
airson craiceann agus feòil
a sgàineadh,
tràighean bàna ’n t-samhraidh

© Aonghas MacNeacail

you wait

inglês

you wait
where the voices are singing
like old iron
and the eyes like
neon windows

though you should fill each
          hour and day with
knowledge and learning
the brain will not overflow,
set the schooling you got
          far down
in the dark deep pit of
forgotten spats and sicknesses,
the shell-strewn shores will
still be under your bare feet, there
to cut
into your skin and flesh,
the bright shores of summer

© Aonghas MacNeacail

smuainteag bheag dhan duine mór

gaélico escocês | Aonghas MacNeacail

mar chuimhneachan air somhairle mac ill eain

an latha ghabh thu an drochaid déile, eadar
a bheatha iomlaideach is cuimhne, bha deòir
air bràighean bàn nan aodann, mar chuachan
sàil, mar sgàthain tromh faicear na briathran
leugach beò, a chuir thu ann an eanchainn
do mhuinntir, mar shìl a tha, ann an dubhair
biadhchar na cuimhne, a dùsgadh fhriamhan,
a togail ghasan, gus am brùchdar amach a
choille thoirmreach beithe, tromh’n cluinnear
gach slat, gach duilleag, ag aithris do dhàin

© Aonghas MacNeacail

a small thought for a big man

inglês

in memoriam sorley maclean

the day you crossed the deal bridge, between
unpredictable life and memory, there were tears
on the pale slopes of our faces, like quaichs of
brine, like mirrors through which could be seen
the living jewel words you placed in the minds
of your people, like seeds that, in the fertile
darknesses of memory, awaken roots, raise
shoots, until it bursts out, in uproar of motion,
that same birch wood, in which can be heard
every twig and leaf, declaiming your poems

© Aonghas MacNeacail

plaide dheanntag

gaélico escocês | Aonghas MacNeacail

eadar ceann agus sàil na leapa
plaide dheanntagan sgaoilte
far an robh achadh òg
far an robh cur is buain
far an robh gaol is gàire
far an robh breith is àrach

eadar ceann is sàil na leapa
coille lotach nan deanntag
’s an torachd mhìn-ghuineach
ann an neochiontas an duilleach
lot a bhreith is lot a bhàis
lot nan cleas is lot nan càs

aimsirean a dh’innseadh duilleag
dubh is gorm an ceann a chéile
samhla ’n airgid anns na féithean
seall am faicear dearc am falach
seall am faicear bil a phògas
ann a ràithe, brot an dòchais

friamhaichean nach ruig an cridhe
ach buin tha luasganach le beatha

© Aonghas MacNeacail

a bed of nettles

inglês

between bed’s head and heel
a nettle blanket spreads
where there was a young field
where there was sowing and reaping
where there was love and laughter
where there was birth and rearing

between bed’s head and heel
a stinging forest of nettles
harvest of exquisite wounds
in the innocence of leaves
the sting of birth, the sting of death
the sting of games, sting of hardship

the weathers that a leaf can tell
black and green infused together
silver’s semblance in its veins
can you find a hidden berry
can you find a lip that kisses
in its season, broth of hopes

roots that do not reach the heart
but roots still tremulous with life

© Aonghas MacNeacail

dusgadh

gaélico escocês | Aonghas MacNeacail

druim an eich mar thuinn a siubhal
ann am bruadar na tha cluinntinn
marcaiche na h-oidhche duirche
togail tairneanadh a talamh cruaidh,

nuair nach fhaic thu na tha tachairt
nuair nach fhaic thu na tha tachairt
thoir an t-saorsa dhan mhacmheanmhain
gu faigh an t-each a chruth saor fhein

nuair a tha am fon a durdan
’s gun do dheon am fon a fhreagairt
faic an t-each ’s a dhruim a luasgan
air a cheum gu dusgadh grein

inns dhan t-saoghal gu robh thu cadal
nach robh d’ iarraidh airson aisling
inns dhan t-saoghal gu robh thu marcachd
tromh’n oidhche dhubh gu dusgadh grein

© Aonghas MacNeacail

waking

inglês

the horse’s back like waves in motion
in the dreams of those who hear it
rider of the darkest night who’s
raising thunder from hard earth

you who cannot see what happens
you who cannot see what happens
give imagination freedom
the horse must find its own true shape

when the phone is purring, purring
when you have no wish to answer
see the horse, its back in motion
on its way to wake the sun

tell the world that you were sleeping
that you had no time for dreaming
tell the world that you were riding
through the night to wake the sun

© Aonghas MacNeacail

cunntas

gaélico escocês | Aonghas MacNeacail

’s a chaob chumhang seo
dhe’n a’ bhliadhna ’s na làithean
a’ dùnadh astaigh air a’ ghréin
bi thu cunntas nam bàs
na tha falbh a bha san aon sgrìob
bi thu tomhas dìlseachd do chlann
dhan chairt-iùil a dheònaich thu dhaibh
agus d’oghaichean mar a tha iad a dealbh
cànain nach tuig thu mìr no meur
nas fhasa bhi cunntas nam bliadhna
ged a b’fheàrr leat gun
                                        is an té ud cho
bòidheach ’s a h-uchd a fàs
agus tusa fighe

© Aonghas MacNeacail

counting

inglês

in this narrow bite
of the year with the days
closing in on the sun
you sit counting the deaths
those now gone who walked the same track
you measure your children’s fidelity
to the route-map you wanted for them
and your grandchildren how they shape
a language as foreign as trees to you
much simpler to count the years
though you’d rather not
                                        but see her beauty
that one whose belly is growing
while you are knitting

© Aonghas MacNeacail

a chraobh

gaélico escocês | Aonghas MacNeacail

eadar nan craobh
chithear a’ chraobh
a thagh grian fhann
mar lòchran

eadar dubhar caol àrd
agus dubhar caol àrd
’n a sònrachd fhéin
a’ deàrrsadh

a guirme geal
a togail brìgh
na gréine mar
gur sgàthan i

© Aonghas MacNeacail

the tree

inglês

between the trees
can be seen the tree
a pale sun chose
as lantern

between one tall darkness
and another tall darkness
its own uniqueness
radiant

its white greenness
drawing the sun’s
essence as if
a mirror itself

© Aonghas MacNeacail

gridlock agus gaol

gaélico escocês | Aonghas MacNeacail

air leathad na drochaid,
a suidhe na mo chàr, gun ghluasad,
ann an cuan de ghlainne ’s stàilinn,
cinn feirge ’s foighidinn
tromh na h-uinneagan, gun ghluasad,
ag éisdeachd ris an réidio,
naidheachdan an latha
’s fón astaigh, na guthan maotha
ùghdarrasach a cumail stiùir
air beachd is ceist, is
mise seo, nam chàr, gun ghluasad,
mar a tha gach ceann mun cuairt orm,
mar phrìosanaich nar ceallan dùrdail
ghlainne ’s stàilinn, ag éisdeachd
ris an réidio, na guthan maotha
cumail smachd air smuaint, ach
siud, mar chlaidheamh briathrach
mór, a sgudadh chinn nam maoth,
tha guth na feirge ’g éirigh a
fón-siùbhlach glaist an cuan de
ghlainne ’s stàilinn, fòs gun ghluasad,
ged a tha e gluasad mhonaidhean
de bhialachd is de bhriag, toirt
anail as na guthan maotha, gaoir
a chuthaich lasrach as an réidio,
bu siud an eas de dhìtidhean,
ach thàinig e gu tàmh, is ann an
sgàil’ an smuaint gun ghairm e
gaol da chéile, prìosanach gu bheil mi
anns an reothairt reòta seo, tha sinne
dlùth, is bì
, is chunnaic mi, air gnùis
nam prìosanach, nan ceallan teann
de ghlainne ’s stàillinn, fiamh a ghàire
is leig mi fhìn mo smuaint an àird,
mar cholman gaoil, gu ruig e thu
gu ruig e thu

© Aonghas MacNeacail

gridlock and love

inglês

on the brae of the bridge,
sitting in my car, not moving,
in a sea of glass and steel,
of furious and patient heads
through windows, not moving,
listening to the radio,
the daily news, a phone-in, bland
authoritative voices steer
each question and reply, and
i am here, in my car, not moving,
like every head around me,
all prisoners in purring cells
of glass and steel, listening
to the radio, bland voices
steering thought, but
then, a verbal claymore
slicing off bland heads,
the voice of fury rises from
a mobile phone imprisoned in
a sea of glass and steel, still
not moving, though that voice
shifts mountainsides of
lies and plausibilities and takes
the breath from those bland voices,
pain of fury flaming on the radio,
a wild cascade of condemnation,
then the anger ebbs, and in
the shade of thought, declares a
love for partner, prisoner i may be
in this frozen tide, but we stay
close
, and now i see each other
prisoned face, in each closed cell
of glass and steel, break into smiles
and now i let my own thoughts rise
like doves, to fly toward you, love,
to fly toward you, love

© Aonghas MacNeacail