Fód an imris: Árd-Oifig an Phoist, 1986
by Máire Mhac an tSaoi
Anso, an ea, ’athair, a thosnaigh sé?
Gur dhein strainséirí dínn dá chéile?
Anso, and ea?
Fastaím a shílis riamh dár mórchuid cainte –
Fiú nuair aontaíomar leat:
Oidhrí ar eachtra nár aithin bolaith an phúdair
Ná na heagla,
Nár chaith riamh ruchar feirge
Is is lú ná san
A sheas . . .
D’éalaíomar uait thar Pháil na Gaelainne isteach;
B’shin terre guerre ba linn fhéin,
Is chuaigh sé de mhianach an Olltaigh
Ionatsa
Ár lorg a rianadh,
Ár dtabhairt chun tíríochais –
Civilitie Spenser
D’oibrigh irtsa a chluain.
Leanamarna treabhchas na máthar:
Kranz barrghaoitheach na Mumhan;
Ba tusa san seanabhroc stróinsithe,
Scheamhaíl ort ag paca spáinnéar.
Le haois ghnáthaoímar a chéile thar n-ais;
D’fhoghlaimís carthain,
Ach b’éigean fós siúl go haireach;
Do mheabhair agues th’acfainn chirt
Níor thaithigh cúl scéithe;
Comhaos mé féin is an stat,
Is níor chun do thola do cheachtar.
Óigfhear in easnamh, anaithnid, thú, ’athair,
San àit seo –
Ceileann neamart is tuathal an eochair ar m’intinn –
Ach an seanóir a charas le grà duaisiúl,
Cloisim a thuin aduaidh:
An cuimhin leat an t-aitheasc a thugais
Nuair nà raibh faiseanta fós?
Mar seo do ràidhis é:
I see no cause for rejoicing
That Irishmen once again
Are killing other Irishmen
On the streets of Belfast!
TROUBLE SPOT: GENERAL POST OFFICE 1986
Here, father, is this where it started?
Here we became strangers to each other?
Was it here?
You thought most of what we said was nonsense –
Even when we agreed with you:
Inheritors of the event who never knew the smell
Of gunpowder, or of terror,
Who never fired a shot in anger,
Worse yet,
Never stood up to one . . .
We retreated from you into the Pale of Irish;
That was our familiar terre guerre,
And the Ulsterman
In you
Could not follow our tracks
Or tame our barbarism –
Spenser’s civilitie
Had beguiled you.
We took after our mother’s tribe:
The high-blown ways of Munster;
You were the recalcitrant old badger
Run to ground by howling spaniels.
In later years, we tried again;
You learned to be charitable,
But we still had to tread carefully;
Your intelligence and sense of justice
Never practised deception;
I am the same age as the state
And neither turned out as you wished . . .
In this place, father, you are the unknown
Youth who went missing –
Neglect and awkwardness hide the key from my mind –
But I hear now the Northern accent
Of the elder man I loved with hard devotion:
Do you remember the rebuke you delivered
Before it became fashionable?
You spoke thus:
I see no cause for rejoicing
That Irishmen once again
Are killing other Irishmen
On the streets of Belfast!
© 2011, Máire Mhac an tSaoi
From: The Miraculous Parish / An Paróiste Míorúilteach
Publisher: O’Brien Press / Cló Iar-Chonnacht, Dublin, 2011, 978-1-84717-300-3