The Colmcille Poetry Prizes 2010 - the shortlist, in alphabetical order
   The prizes will be announced and awarded at Strokestown International Poetry Festival, 30 April ~ 2 May 2010

Draghadh

A’ cur le gaoith ‘s a’ draghadh

Air a’ Chuan Sgìth, mi fhìn air a’ chlàr,

A’ glacadh is a’ sgaoileadh,

A’ tilgeil is a’ tarraing,

A’ dol mu seach,

Air mo thachdadh, ag aiseag.

Is tu fhèin ga stiùireadh

Le sùil agad air thoiseach

A’ sgrùdadh na doimhneachd is nan dathan

Is do chùl rium fhèin

Is an fhairge cho mòr

Is nach tog thu leis an troimh-a-chèile

M’ èigh san deireadh:

Lìon briste! Lìon briste!

Lewis MacKinnon is from Nova Scotia, Canada, where he has been concerned with making Gaelic more than just an historic footnote ever since his grand uncle Dougald MacDougall, a native speaker, spoke Scots Gaelic to him as a teenager. He is now CEO of the Office of Gaelic Affairs.

Fhuair mi a-mach gu robh mi ’san Iris Fhrang* o chionn ghoirid a-rithist

Ad absurdum…Frang…leis a’ churriculum vitae fhad’ aic’

An tobar ud de Shoillseachadh, dh’ Eòlas agus de bhrosnachadh

Agus am modus operandi aice

Na mìltean a thig dhan roinn againn air sàilleabh nan duilleagan glioc’ aic’

Semper fidelis dhan aona rùn aice sine qua non

Is prime facie nach ann gu buileach ceart ’s a tha i

Tha mi ’nam cheannard

Air a’ bhuidhinn

“Comunn Bàird nan Cànainean Marbh” et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera

Ach tha seans ex officio

Ipso facto, cuimhnichibh gur e Frang a th’ ann

Saoil a bheil Frang a’ sgrìobhadh ex tempore

Tha e follaiseach gu bheil mise in flagrante delicto

A chionn ’s gum bi mi ’sgrìobhadh ’s a’ chànain seo ad nauseam

Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa bu chòir dhuinn a’ chànain diabhalta leigeil dol bàs

Ach chan fhaigheadh Frang quid pro quo

Ged a shaoilinn an tuigeadh Frang quid pro quo ann an cànain sam bith?

Bheir mi dhan chànain agam requiem

Ach air a’ làimh eile age quod agis a Fhraing Uasail

Agus an uair sin bidh i réidh

Requiescat in pace

Is ged nach e fear-sabaid a th’ unnam

Ach ’s toigh leam an tiotal

Lodaidh versus Frang

Chan eil alias sam bith eil’ ann

Chan ann ach gur unnta excerpta

Air naidheachd a chaidh ìnnseadh gu bochd

Ach dh’ fhaodte gur ann a’ Frang

An alter ego agam

A’ fear a tha ’fiachainn gu cruaidh ri magnus opus ’dhèanadh

Ach thug mi ’n aire gur ann vice versa ’s a tha e

Nam biodh e bona fide

Cha bhiodh e cho doirbh

Agus res ipsa loquitur

Agus gun an tuisge shoilleir seo

Ad hoc co-dhiubh

Ach leis a’ phost mortem

Agus taing do Dhia tha non sequitur ann

De mortius nil nisi bonum

Iris Fhrang* = Iris ann an Albainn Nuaidh le fathuinn is cabaireach innt’

Simon Ó Faoláin’s poetry has been published in many journals including Feasta, Cyphers, and Poetry Ireland Review. He won the Colm Cille Prize in 2008. His first collection, Anam Mhadra (Coiscéim) won the Glen Dimplex Irish Award and the Eithne and Rupert Strong Award in 2008.

Author’s note: I was unable to produce a satisfactory English translation of this poem. It is written in a loose syllabic verse typical of much Irish poetry, but using a poetic device borrowed from early Welsh englynion poetry. This device involves the juxtaposition in each three-line verse of an initial descriptive element describing a landscape or natural scene, with a following proverbial or ‘gnomic’ element consisting of pithy piece of wisdom. Each element may take up one or two lines of the three line verse. Whether there is any identifiable link – metaphorical or otherwise – between the two elements of the englyn is a matter which has not been satisfactorily resolved by scholars. However, the constant switching back and forth between the natural scenes and the aphorisms creates an oracular tone which [in my opinion] creates a unique effect in the mind of the reader. SÓF.

Ómós do Marcus Aurelius

   aprés Canu Llywarch Hen

Sioc briosc ar rúsc, spéir chruach-liath,

Bachlóga dubha ar fuinseog.

Slí sástachta gannchuid gnímh.

Titeann fearthainn, gáireann cág.

Gealtacht tóraíocht ruda gan fáil,

Fós síorchúram amadáin.

Céad bhladhm bándearg ar crann úill.

Ná cur fuíollach saoil amú

le chogar nimhneach ar cúl.

Ní ghlaonn traonach, glas an fhéir.

Braitheann ár gcruinne go léir

ar fhir nach dtuigeann iad féin.

Cúr bán, sliocht dhubhcharraige.

Feidhmíonn fir áirithe cabhsa

áirithe: dosheachanta.

Aitinn sléibhe tré thine.

Ní áit olc lár claochlaithe,

Ná olc bheith mar táirgeadh dhe.

Cliathán sléibhe, mór an t-achar.

A bhí, a bheas: cuimhní neacha

i murascaill na síoraíochta.

Dealán tobann, leathann bláth,

Bothántaíocht intinn na mbeach.

Staon ón aithris; agairt mhaith.

Scamaill bídeacha ag snámh

go h-íseal: tréad ceannabháin.

Bog fir le h-áiteamh amháin.

Splanc deor drúchta ar dhroim daoil.

Ní mar rince ealaín saoil,

Is cosúla iomrascáil.

Réabann snag breac uibhe loin.

Tarraing ort féin briseadh chroí,

Leanfaidh gach fear mar a bhí.

Eitlíonn cuach ar nós seabhaic,

Corraíonn giolcach taobh le loch.

Gnó súl folláin feiscint cách.

Roiceann raisne barra chuain.

An bhfuil píolóta m’anam

ag tabhairt féna chúram?

Dáithí Ó hÓgáin is Emeritus Professor of Folklore at University College Dublin. He has written many books on a variety of topics, among them three collections of short stories and seven collections of poetry.

Níl uaim ach a mhíniú duit

go bhfuil réimse fuar

agus dumhach gainimhe

timpeall ar loch uisce

ina chruinneán lasta

trí dhubhghorm

agus é sin go léir

ag ciorcalú, ag ciorcalú,

agus an dorchacht ar fad lasmuigh…

Gur i lár an locha,

os cionn scátha san uisce,

atá gallán cloiche

neamhchothrom

arís dorcha,

is a splinc ag díriú in airde

ar an spéir dhubh.

Is i ngruamacht na spéire sin

go bhfuil dhá ghealach crochta

faoi mar a bheidís greanta inti,

iad bán is claiseanna gearrtha iontu,

is go bhfuil piléir bheaga solais

ag geiteadh ó ghealach go gealach acu,

agus cuid de na piléir sin ag dul amú

agus ag polladh na spéire,

ag dianpholladh.

Go bhfuil uisce an locha

á lasadh go drithleannach

mar éifeacht frithchaite

ó spréacha mar iad

mar a bheadh fios ar athláimh

nó fios ar gan fhios.

Go bhfuil síor-imeacht mar é

ag déanamh solais

i bhfuar-linn an locha -

an loch

a ghluaiseann timpeall

ina chruinneán dorcha,

ansin lasmuigh dínn,                                                                             

ar thaobh eile,                                                                                      

ach go mb’fhéidir nach fada uainn,                                                        

mar go mbíonn ar a sheal

ag méadú as cuimse agus ag síothlú arís.

Rún locha,

agus den dul seo

ní ceist é

ná dubhfhocal,

ná tomhas ná rúndacht,

ná deasa draíochta,

ná rith ar intinn,

ach saol cruinneáin

agus na dúile timpeall.

Níl uaim

ach a rá leat

go bhfuil seo go léir ann,

go bhfuil seo go léir faoi thost.

I only want to explain to you

that there is a cold place

and a bank of sand

around a watery lake,

a goblet lit up

through dullish blue

and all of that

circling and circling,

and all the darkness outside…

That in the centre of the lake,

above the water’s shade,

there is a standing stone

awkwardly hewn

but dark again,

and its spike is reaching up

towards the darkened sky.

And that in the sadness of that sky

two bright moons are hanging

as if engraved in it,

they are white but have ridges cut into them,

and that there are little bullets of light

jetting from moon to moon,

and some of these bullets go astray

and make deep holes

in the impenetrable sky,

That the water of the lake

is lit up sporadically

as a reflected pulse

from sparks like them

as though it were wisdom at second hand

or the knowledge of not knowing.

That continuous happenings like that

reflect light

in the lake’s cold pool –

that lake

that moves around

as a dark goblet,

there outside of us,

on another side,

but perhaps not far away,

because alternately it is

increasing out of all proportion and decreasing again.

Thus the secret of a lake,

but at this moment

it is not a question,

or a mysterious phrase,

or a riddle or hidden secret,

or tricks of magic,

or a mind run astray,

but the life of a goblet

and of the things surrounding.

I want only

to say to you

that all of this is there,

that all of this is in silence.

Mícheál Ó hUanacháin was born in Dublin. Six collections of his poetry have appeared to date, most recently Tráchtaireacht ar na Cluichí Móra (1998), dánta . com (2006), and Damhsa Rúnda (2008). Twice editor of Comhar, in the1970s and the 2000s, he was for many years a journalist in RTÉ.

Ní cuimhin liom do dháta beireatais.

Cuimhním ort nuair a éalaíonn

na loin dubha,

dá ndeoin féin,

nuair a scoitear do stair

mo Chraobh Rua,

mo Ruairíochtsa.

Cuimhním, agus

nuair a bhíonn coipeadh fola

sa phobal

go díreach mar bheadh

ionat féin,

an dochreidteacht,

an t-alltacht –

mo dhaille,

m'easpa tola.

Cuimhním, agus

teachtaireacht

gan freagra –

bailbhe nó bodhaire –

Ach is fada an chéim

ó bhaile go baile:

bíonn iarmairtí ann

is íospairtí is íobairtigh

amanna.

Tugtar scáileanna uaidh

agus fágtar scáileanna ann

Titimid ina chéile

óna chéile

in aghaidh a chéile

Áit éigin

i ndeisceart na Gearmáine

nó os cionn na hOstaire,

n'fheadar,

dhá churcach gaile ag éirí

i bhfoirm tarbh na Créite

is ag luí ó chéile

arís

ina lánúin ag pógadh.

Ach tagann ceo idir mé

is iad

agus nuair a ghealann arís

tá an Sava fúm

is is gairid

gealadh ómrach san oirthear

ó dhul faoi na gréine thiar.

Siúlfad arís

sráideanna na cathrach

ag lorg an

chaifé sráide

áit ar suíodh oiche

go maidin

ag plé an domhain –

mar a déantar –

Suífead arís

os comhair an óstáin amach

im aonar

cúl-cheol feadaíle

im chluais

ó dhream ar stailc

béal dorais.

Ní cuimhin liom

cén cineál toitíní

a cheannaíos ann

an uair sin.

Ach cuimhním go fóill

nach mbíodh racht ná uaillbhreas

ná gáir féin asat

ag móimint do shúnáis

ach osna beag.

I don't remember your birth date.

I remember you when

the blackbirds fly away,

of their own accord,

when your history is rent

my Red Branch

my Ulster Cycle.

I remember, and

when hot blood rises

in the people

as it would in you,

the disbelief,

the shock –

my blindness,

my lack of will.

I remember, and

a message

not answered –

deaf or dumb –

But it's a long step

from home to home:

there are consequences

and outcomes and victims

at times.

Shadows are removed

and other shadows left

We fall together

from each other

into each other

Somewhere

in southern Germany

or over Austria,

perhaps,

two plumes of steam rise

like a Cretan bull

and lying apart

again

a couple kissing.

But mist comes between me

and them

when it clears again

the Sava below me

and soon

gold brightness in the east

from sunset in the west.

I'll walk again

the streets of the city

looking for a

sidewalk café

where the world was debated

til morning one night –

as you do –

I'll sit again

in front of the hotel

on my own

background music whistling

in my ears

from a group of strikers

up the street.

I don't remember

what cigarettes

I bought there

then.

But I remember still

there was no yell or shouting

nor even a cry from you

at the moment of climax

just a little sigh.

Cathal Ó Searcaigh was born and lives in Donegal.  He has written many volumes of poetry and won the Irish Times' Irish language literature prize in 2001. His work has been translated into English by Seamus Heaney as well as into other languages. He is a member of Aosdána.

1.

Níl uaim, a chroí, ach a bheith ag saothrú créafóg

chumhra do cholla;

mo mhéara ina mbuíonta fómhair i bpáirc cruithneachta

d’uchta, póg ar phóg

ag oibriú na gcríoch úd ó do chorróga ionúin go cluthar

na gceathrún, óir is tusa, a rún,

cion bheag mo dhúthrachta, tír thalaimh m’ansachta,

mo fhód dúchais i gcéin.

níl uaim ach cur faoi agus cónaí idir ardmhín

            do bhrollaigh agus learg do mhásaí;

faoi scáth an chrainn daraí mar a bhfuil an t-úll gráinneach i mbláth

            is ann a b’ionúin liom lonnú;

san áit a bhfuil meas ar gach sort ba dheas ann mo ghabháltas,

            ag lí is ag súrac ó mhíodún go mám;

bheadh tarraingt mo láimhe agam de chaor is de chraobh –

            tá mo neamh faoi do choim.

2.

An fear álainn seo i mo bhachlainn, aoibhinn liom

            mus cumhra a chraicinn.

Ná labhair liom ar chumhráin na hAraibe is mé

            i láthair mo leannáin.

Tig a chumhracht thíriúil, a mhus spreagúil

            ó chre na gcúlchríoch is ó anail an Aibreáin.

Tá boladh na spéire agus boladh na húire i mbuí aibreoige

            a phóige, i gcrann peitseoige a bharróige.

Ola ar mo chroí blas olóige a bhrollaigh,

            boladh almóinne a chorróige.

Nuair atá sé ina luí liom bímse ag deanamh lúcháire

            as spréach oíche a cholainne –

solas glé a ghlúine, an ghealach ag lonrú ina iongan,

            réalt reatha a gháire.

Nuair atá sé ina luí liom is liomsa na Tiarnais,

            gach dúíl aoibhnis ina chumasc chré.

Tig mo bheatha chugam ó ghrasta a bheil is ó shuáilce a ghabhail,

            ó mhil órga na mbeach i gcuasnóga a bhriathra,

óna dhá úll ghlórmhara as a mbainim an sú go cíócrach.

3.

Abhainn ag titim le heas atá i dtapú a chroí. Is deas liom luí

            ar bhruach a chliabhraigh, mo chluas

le tuaim an tsrutha, a bhradán beatha ag cuisliú óna leabaidh

            folaigh i measc na ngiolcach.

Nuair a bhíónn sé ag suirí liom éiríonn stoirm i gcnoic a

chéadfaí a fhágann é spreagtha ionas

gur oíche ghaoithe atá i dtarraingt a anála, gur siabadh sneachta

            atá i ngealadh a láimhe ar mo chneas.

Eisean mo ghabhal gaoil, an t-úll is umhaile ar chrann mo dhúile,

            an pór a shantaím, an préamh ar a mbeathaím.

Nuair atá sé sínte le mo thaobh níl ríomh ar a bhfuil

            den chruthaíocht faoi mo réir.

Tá iolar i spear a shúil agus nathair i bhféar a ghabhail

            agus is liomsa ina iomláine limistéir

líonmhar seo a cholainne; a bhfuil den domhan ina bharróg,

            a bhfuil de neamh ina phóg.

Aoibhinn liom a bheith ag siúl ó dhoire coille a chin go

            cinnfhearainn a bhoinn; tír gan teorainn

fearainn seo m’ansachta, a bhfuil agam den tsaol agus a bhfuil

            ag teastáil uaim den tsíoraíocht.