Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill is one of Ireland’s most celebrated and widely recognised poets.
She writes in the Irish language, and has published several collections of poetry, such as Pharaoh’s Daughter (1990), The Astrakhan Cloak (1992), and The Water Horse (1999).
Her poetry is characterised by its focus on the rich cultural and linguistic heritage of Ireland, as well as its constant crossing of boundaries between, for instance, the mythic and the everyday, sexuality and spirituality, the past and the present. In its celebration of feminine strength, her poetry also offers a much needed alternative in the traditionally male-dominated poetic environment of Ireland.
Sample poems by Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill:
© All poems on this site are copyrighted by Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill.
For a complete list of Ní Dhomhnaill’s published works, click here.
Toircheas 1
An féidir scríobh ar chiúineas? — Ar an tslí
a sheolann gaileoin néalta tríd an aer,
a seolta arda, bolgacha, gan chorraí
is ar dheis, an ghrian, gan gíocs, ag sleamhnú faoi?
An loch ina leamhach, ach bolgáin ag éirí
thall is abhus i bhfianaise go bhfuil éisc
ag scuaideáil thíos sa doimhneas is an liús
ocrach ar thóir a ghoblaigh gan stop ná staonadh.
Ins an chré phatfhuar, thais, tá síol gan chorraí.
Ba dhóigh leat a anáil tairrigthe ag an saol. San eadarlinn
éalaíonn luid deireanach an tsolais ó bhun go barr binne
faoi mar a éalaíonn go minic an mhéanfach ó dhuine go duine.
Ark of the Covenant
How can I begin to explain my quiet to you?
As the sleepwalk of treasure-laden clouds,
Their full sails poised and stationary?
As the sun’s speechless exit, stage right?
Or where, in the flat stomach of the lake,
Sporadic bubbles betray the insatiable pike
Orbiting the eternal dark for the fish
That marshal in their mouthfuls?
A seed lies dormant in the damp, sunless clay
Despite the world’s having difficulty breathing,
And the last opening of light fades
From peak to peak like an infectious yawn.
Translation by Medbh McGuckian
Geasa
Má chuirim aon lámh ar an dtearmann beannaithe,
má thógaim droichead thar an abhainn,
gach a mbíonn tógtha isló ages na ceardaithe
bíonn sé leagtha ar maidin romham.
Tagann aníos an abhainn istoíche bád
is bean ina seasamh inti
Tá coinneal ar lasadh ina súil is ina lámha.
Tá dhá mhaide rámha aici.
Tairrigíonn sí amach paca cártaí,
‘An imréofá breith?’ a deireann sí.
Imrímid is buann sí orm de shíor
is cuireann sí de cheist, de bhreith is de mhórualach orm
Gan an tarna béile a ithe in aon tigh,
ná an tarna oíche a chaitheamh faoi aon díon,
gan dhá shraic chodlata a dhéanamh ar aon leaba
go bhfaighead í. Nuair a fhiafraím di cá mbíonn sí,
‘Dá mba siar é soir,’ a deireann sí, ‘da mba soir é siar.’
Imíonn sí léi agus splancacha tintrí léi
is fágtar ansan mé ar an bport.
Tá an dá choinneal fós ar lasadh le mo thaobh.
D’fhág sí na maidí rámha agam.
The Bond
If I use my forbidden hand
To raise a bridge across the river,
All the work of the builders
Has been blown up by sunrise.
A boat comes up the river by night
With a woman standing in it,
Twin candles lit in her eyes
And two oars in her hands.
She unsheathes a pack of cards,
‘Will you play forfeits?’ she says.
We play and she beats me hands down,
And she puts three banns upon me:
Not to have two meals in one house,
Not to pass two nights under one roof,
Not to sleep twice with the same man
Until I find her. When I ask her address,
‘If it were north I’d tell you south,
If it were east, west.’ She hooks
Off in a flash of lightning, leaving me
Stranded on the bank,
My eyes full of candles,
And the two dead oars.
Translation by Medbh McGuckian
Madame
Madame laistíos de loch,
do rúmanna geala
ina mbíodh mairt á leagadh
is caoirigh ar bhearaibh.
do chúirteanna aolda
ar oileáin ag imeall na mara
nó ag íor na spéire
a bhíodh de shíor am mhealladh
ó thrath m’óige i leith.
Ní tigh draighin é ná tigh
cárthainn do ionad cónaithe
ach halla airneáin.
Tá fiche troigh i leithead
a dhorais, tá díon
air de chleití éan
dearg is gorm.
Ní gá fuinneoga a dhúnadh
anseo, ná doirse;
is cuma, mar tá
gach aon ní fliuch.
Is tá mo mháthair á treorú
agam i do choinne,
thar dhroichead gloine,
cos ar chos is rícháiréiseach
gach coiscéim a chuireann sí roimpi
ach tá ag éirí linn.
Ag tairseach do ghrianáin soilsigh
tagann fuarallas orm
ar an leac,
ag an doras roithleánach
a bhíonn de shíor is choíche
ag casadh ar mhórdtuathal,
mar éinne a théann suas
do staighre cloch
ní fheictear arís é
go brách.
Madame
Lady under the lake
Your bright rooms
Where they are killing bullocks
And sheep are turning on spits,
Your whitewashed courts
On islands near the coast
Or touching the horizon
Have been seducing me
Ever since I was a child.
Your dwelling is no
Tree-house, woven shelter
But a hall to feast in.
The door is twenty
Feet wide, the roof
Made of birds’ feathers
Red and blue
No need here to shut
Windows or doors —
It makes no odds, the water
Enters everywhere.
And I am guiding
My mother towards you
Across a bridge of glass,
With careful steps
A tentative foot forward,
But we are arriving.
In the doorway of your sunny chamber
A cold sweat comes over me
On the doorstep,
At the revolving door
Constantly
Turning widdershins,
For the one that mounts
Your stone staircase
Will never be
Seen again.
Translation by Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin
Leaba Shioda
Do chóireoinn leaba duit
i Leaba Shíoda
sa bhféar ard
faoi iomrascáil na gcrann
is bheadh do chraiceann ann
mar shíoda ar shioda
sa doircheacht
am lonnaithe na leamhan.
Craiceann a shníonn
go gléineach thar do ghéaga
mar bhainne á dháil as crúiscíní
am lóin
is tréad gabhar ag gabháil thar chnocáin
do chuid gruaige
cnocáin ar a bhfuil faillte arda
is dhá ghleann atá domhain.
Is bheadh do bheola taise
ar mhilseacht shiúcra
tráthnóna is sinn ag spaisteoireacht
cois abhann
is na gaotha meala
ag séideadh thar an Sionna
is na fiúisí ag beannú duit
ceann ar cheann.
Na fiúisí ag ísliú
a gceanna maorga
ag umhlú síos don áilleacht
os a gcomhair
is do phriocfainn péire acu
mar shiogairlíní
is do mhaiseoinn do chluasa
mar bhrídeog.
Ó, chóireoinn leaba duit
i Leaba Shíoda
le hamhascarnach an lae
i ndeireadh thall
is ba mhór an pléisiúr dúinn
bheith géaga ar ghéaga
ag iomrascáil
am lonnaithe na leamhan. Labysheedy (The Silken Bed)
I’d make a bed for you
in Labysheedy
in the tall grass
under the wrestling trees
where your skin
would be silk upon silk
in the darkness
when the moths are coming down.
Skin which glistens
shining over your limbs
like milk being poured
from jugs at dinnertime;
your hair is a herd of goats
moving over rolling hills,
hills that have high cliffs
and two ravines.
And your damp lips
would be as sweet as sugar
at evening and we walking
by the riverside
with honeyed breezes
blowing over the Shannon
and the fuchsias bowing down to you
one by one.
The fuchsias bending low
their solemn heads in obeisance to the beauty
in front of them
I would pick a pair of flowers
as pendant earrings
to adorn you
like a bride in shining clothes.
O I’d make a bed for you
in Labysheedy,
in the twilight hour
with evening falling slow
and what a pleasure it would be
to have our limbs entwine
wrestling
while the moths are coming down.
Translation by Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill
НАША КОЖА ПОДОБНА ОБОЯМ
Кость
Когда-то я была
костью,
лежала на песке
среди скелетов.
На пустынной равнине,
среди валунов и гальки,
я была костью,
голой, белой.
Пришел ветер,
вздох стихий,
он вдохнул в меня
душу.
Я превратилась в женщину,
по образцу той,
что была скроена из адамова ребра.
Пришла буря,
сила стихий.
Под грохот грома
до меня доносился твой голос,
звавший меня.
Я стала Евой,
матерью народов.
Я продала свое первородство
за моих детей.
Я обменяла яблоко
на вожделение древних времен.
Я все еще
кость.
Лиса
Лисичка рыжая,
рыжая, рыжая, рыжая, рыжая,
как так вышло, что ты не знаешь —
и пока ничего от этого не теряешь —
что, какой дорожкой тебе ни идти,
в лавке меховщика
конец твоего пути?
Мы, поэты, тоже
чем-то на тебя похожи.
Говорил Джон Берримэн,
что однажды Готфрид Бенн
сказал: наша кожа подобна обоям,
и не выиграть
жизненный бой нам.
Будьте осторожны,
меховщики,
понапрасну не тяните ко мне рукu:
я не кроткая зайчиха,
я лиса далеких гор,
и тому, кто дает мне пищу,
я вцепляюсь зубами в голенище.
Мать
Ты подарила мне платье —
и потом забрала его у меня.
Ты подарила мне лошадь —
и в мое отсутствие продала ее.
Ты дала мне арфу —
и потом попросила ее назад.
И еще ты дала мне жизнь.
На вечеринке у скупого О’Брайана
каждая крошка на счет.
Что бы ты сказала,
если б я порвала платье,
утопила лошадь,
сломала арфу
и затянула струны жизни
вокруг моего горла?
Если б я спрыгнула
с утеса?
Я знаю,
что бы ты сказала.
Со средневековой методичностью
ты бы послала в газету
извещение о моей смерти,
а в медицинском свидетельстве
написала бы следующее:
«Неблагодарная шизофреничка».
Нула Ни Гоннал — поэтесса. Родилась в Англии. Воспитывалась в Ирландии, в графстве Кэрри. Пишет на гэльском (ирландском) языке.
