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'S ann bho Ghleann Fhiannain, aig cridhe
na Gàidhealtachd, a tha Heather Clyne.
Shiubhail i air feadh an t-saoghail gus, mar Dorothy chòir, ràinig i an
fhìrinn nach eil àite sam bith coltach ris an àite agad fhèin. Tha i a’
dèanamh ceum ann an Cànan ‘s Cultar aig Sabhal Mòr Ostaig Heather Clyne is from Glen Finnan, at the heart of the Scottish Highlands. Having travelled throughout the world she has decided, just like her fellow shoe connoisseur Dorothy, that there is no place like home. She is currently in the third year of a degree in Gaelic Language and Culture at Sabhal Mòr Ostaig, on the Isle of Skye. |
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Chuala mi nach eil ann ach teannachadh
eadar daoimean ‘s gual loisgte |
Chuala mé nach bhfuil ann ach teanntacht idir diamant agus gual dóite | ||||||||||||
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Nach deach thusa tro mo chridhe mar dhraoidh air nach laigh seuntais, dh'òl mi do ghràdh-gheasag gairg ged a sgald e mi le gach tomhas
Nach b' e thusa an rionnag smùide a' cur speuran mo chinn troimh a chèile gam losgadh ’s a’ dalladh m’ inntinn le glòir do ghaoil nach gabh stùr
Nach robh thusa nad thasgaidh thaitneach daoimean drithleannach a thug sùghadh do shùgradh m' anail bhuam a leig dhomh a’ toinneimh 's a’ tuiteam sa dorchadas
Nach d' fhuair an Sealgair Mòr bhuam duais a b' airidh a' luasganadh fo chrios gam lòbanachd sa mharbh-shruth na chois ann an tost na h-oidhche
Ach ann an cur maille air mo lèirsinn nach do chaill thu do bhoillsge agus chan faca mi dad tro do dhreallsach ach èibhleag dhubh loisgte
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Nach deachaigh tusa trí mo chroí mar dhraoi nach luífidh séantas air, d’ól mé do ghrá-gheas garg cé gur loisc sé mé le gach tomhas
Nárbh thusa réalt an earbaill ag cur spéir mo chinn trína chéile dom dhó is ag dalladh m’ intinne le glóir do ghrá nach féidir é a scuabadh
Nach raibh tusa i do thaisce thaitneamhach diamant drithleach a thug sú do shúgartha m’anáil uaim a lig dom ag casadh is ag titim sa dorchadas
Nach bhfuair an Sealgair Mór uaim duais a b’airí ag luascán faoi chrios dom únfairt sa mrabhshruth lena chois i dtost na hoíche
Ach trí mhoille a chur ar mo léargas nár chaill tú do dhrithle is ní fhaca mé tada trí do lasair ach aibhleog dhubh dhóite |
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‘S ann à Leòdhas a tha Ryno Moireasdan ged a chaith e moran de bheatha ann an Uibhist a Deas. Bho òige, tha Ryno air a bhi gu mòr an sàs ann an ealain, cultar agus cànan na Gàidhlig. Tha uidh shònraichte aige ann am bàrdachd bàile, nòs shonraichte de bhàrdachd a bha cumanta air a Ghàidhealtachd agus na h-Eileanan. Tha e an diugh a fuireach ann an Inbhir Nis le bhean is triùir de theaghlach. Ryno Morrison is from the Hebridean island of Lewis, although he spent much of his life in South Uist. From an early age, Ryno has had a deep involvement with the arts, culture and Gaelic language sector in Scotland. He has a special interest in village poetry, a type of rhyming verse that was prevalent in the Highlands and Islands. Ryno is currently based in Inverness with his wife and family. |
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| Caisleagan 3rd Prize | Tangle | ||||||||||||
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Tha thusa a nochd air oir na leap S tha snàthlain dhealrach grinn do chuimhn’ S tha mise an seo ann an seachd cinn |
Tonight you are on edge of bed And your fine bright threads of
memory And here am I in frantic race |
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| Martainn Mac an t-Saoir originates from South Uist in the Outer Hebrides but grew up in Glasgow. In 1992 he won the first William Ross Prize for Gaelic Writing and in 2003 the Saltire Society First Book of the Year Award for his book, Ath-Aithne. His novel Gymnippers Diciadain was shortlisted for the Saltire Society Book of the Year in 2005. He lives in Edinburgh with his wife and two children. | |||||||||||||
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Cloisint le Cluais Chun spairne gan chúléisteacht leis an gcomhrá seanmhná is iad cruinn, faoina mbord! i ndiaidh a bheith ag snámh, is lán a mbéil acu de nuaíocht challóideach faoi chairde leonta:
a thit ar oighear nó leis an staidhre nó a bhásaigh faoin mBliain Úr gan tacaíocht ar bith is nach raibh go maith chun rince coranna an lá a b’fhearr dóibh, nó fial ar chor ar bith ina ngníomhartha, ina smaointe sprionlaithe nó chun déileáil le hathrú na haimsire is murach gur cabhraíodh iad le díomuaine a gcéile grámhara is fada ó bhí siad tar éis an saol a thréigean – aghaidh a thabhairt ar uafás an éaga, is gan bliain shlánaithe amháin toilte acu dãr gcaith siad gan ghean, gan náire Dia na nGrást (‘an Té atá amaideach’) iad siúd ag iarraidh a thrócaire de shíor is…
Is láidir nár léim mé chun a gclab a mhúchadh, bróg a réabadh, nó le gaoth ó mo ghoile ach d’iarr mo dhán orm éisteacht a dhéanamh: briathra a fháil – ar eagla go dteastódh siad uaim. |
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Claisneachd Ri Cluais 2nd Prize Ri spàirn gun farchluais air a’ chòmhradh cailleachan is iad cruinn, mum bòrd-san! ’n dèidh bhith snàmh, is làn am beòil ac’ de naidheachd iargalt’ air càirdean leòinte:
a thuit air deigh no leis an staidhridh, no bhàsaich mun Bhliadhn’ Ùir gun taic ann, ’s nach robh math gu dannsa ruidhle latha a b’ fheàrr ’ad, no idir fialaidh nan gnìomhannan, nan smaointean spìocach, no air dèiligeadh ri caochladh tìm, is mur a b’ e ’s gun deach an cùmhnadh le diomaineachd an cèile ghaolaich ’s fhad’ o bha iad air saoghal a thrèigsinn - aghaidh a chur air uabhas èig, ’s nach b’ airidh air aon bhliadhna shàbhailt’ dhe na choisinn iad gun ghean, gun tàmailt Dia nan Gràsan (‘ ’n Tì tha gòrach!’), iad-siud sìor-mhiannachadh a thròcair’ ’s…
Theab mi leum ’s an clab a mhùchadh, bròg a shradadh, no le glaodh om bhrù-sa, ach dh’ iarr mo dhàn mi dhèanamh èisteachd: briathran fhaotainn - gun fhios nach m’ fheum iad.
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| Ciarán Ó Coigligh was born in Dublin. He is a professor of Irish language, literature and civilization in Saint Patrick’s College, Drumcondra, in Dublin. He has published three novels, one collection of short stories, and nine volumes of poetry, amongst which are Filíocht an Reatha The Poetry of Running, Duibhlinn, Slán le Luimneach, Odaisé Ghael-Mheiriceánach / An Irish-American Dream. | |||||||||||||
Turas na gCros 1st Prize1 Ceileann gile na gréine is fionnuaire na huaire duairceas deacair doicheallach na clainne cráite nach scairteann grásta ar vásta ná ar chás a mball in ainneoin síoraíocht sagaí ag socrú is ag síolchur is ag scaipeadh a liacht sin feall a rinne an iníon allta nach mian léi caidreamh caoin ná teagmháil mhín le hathair ná máthair, deartháir ná deirfiúr, ach taithí thrioblóideach ruifíneach is ragúsaithe a chothú is a chur chun cinn le linn na hoíche duibhe nach lastar lóchrann grá ná gaoise ach tine loiscthe na táire is na náire.
2 Iarracht amú gach iarracht chiúin, gach beartas rúin, gach sroicheadh síor, gach teagmháil fhíor, gach féachaint chaoin, gach staidéar grinn, gach focal binn, gach caidreamh mín, gach deis, gach treis, gach uain, gach uair ar loic an toil roimh cholg is chantal is chnáimhseáil iníne. Go mbeire Dia dán nach deacair dúinn is gur dream daingean nach duairc muid go broinne an bhrátha.
3 Casaim i leataobh de rogha ar pholltóg a phlancadh ar leiceann leochaileach girsí ar ghoin a giúnaíl shíor is a gothaí gáirsiúla mise is a máthair, a deartháir is a deirfiúr go smior is go smúsach cnámh. Fuil de m’fhuil, feoil de m’fheoil, ding dhoscúch de mo dhaonnacht dhochrach féin, fógraím fán ar fhoghail is ar ár is ar fhreagairt fill is dearbhaím gean is grá, go n-ídítear is go neodraítear doicheall is drogall is deacracht is danaid is duairceas i ndearmad díscaoilte an dóchais dhiaga.
4 Tar éis na gcianta i suansiúl socair saobhshaolta, cuirim suas den phiollaire piteánta, den táibléad táir, den chógas cluanach, is fearaim cath ar chantal is ar chúram is ar chrá is ar chiseach is ar chlampar is ar chobhsaíocht is ar chradhscal is ar chlann an chaointe is siúlaim feasta sa solas saor, sa ngile ghréine de shíor.
5 Silim súmóga a fhliuchann fleasc mo dhroma is teilgtear go toll turraingí trioblóideacha trí mo cholainn chré is trí chreat cráite mo choirp is lingim gan luas linbh ó chathanna cráite go catastrófa na mionteagmhálacha modartha ar minic iad ina meadhg ar fud na cruinne cé is géaraíonn ar ghiorranáil nuair a airím aimride is nuair a shonraím seisce saoil nár samhlaíodh inné i ré an riastra réabhlóide is cúbaim chugam féin is iarraim faoiseamh ar Íosa.
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Sean Ó Curraoin.
I mBearna i gCois Fharraige a rugadh. Chaith furmhór a shaoil mar
Aistritheoir oifigiúil sa Dáil.D'oibrigh ar Fhoclóir Gaeilge-Béarla Uí
Dhomhnaill. Ghnóthaigh sé Duais Mhichael Hartnett ar an gcnuasach 'Cloch na
Cainte' i 2003. Tá dán dá chuid 'Mo Shinsear' sa Leabhar Mór. Dhá chnuasach
gearrscéalta foilsithe aige chomh maith. Sean Ó Curraoin was born in Barna, West Galway. He spent most of his life as an Official Translator in the Oireachtas, and worked on Ó Domhnaill's Irish-English Dictionary. He won the Michael Hartnett poetry award in 2003. A poem of his 'Mo Shinsear' is included in the Leabhar Mór. He has also published two collections of short stories. |
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Idir
na Múrannaí Idir na
múrannaí Idir na
múrannaí Idir na
múrannaí *''Béarfaidh
an Fear Glas ort''.Deirtear é sin leis na páistí san áit seo le iad a
choinneáil
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Is as Gaeltacht na Rinne, Co. Phortláirge í
Áine Uí Fhoghlú.
Tá dhá chnuasach filíochta maraon le dhá úrscéilín foilsithe aici. Tá an
tríú cnuasach filíochta á ullmhú faoi láthair. Tá duaiseanna buaite aici
dá cuid saothar agus sparánachtaí faighte aici ó An Chomhairle Ealaíon/The
Arts Council agus ó Ealaín na Gaeltachta. Áine Uí Fhoghlú comes from the Gaeltacht of An Rinn, Co. Waterford. She has published two collections of poetry and two novellas. Her third collection is almost complete. She has won a number of awards for her writing and received bursaries from An Chomhairle Ealaíon/The Arts Council and Ealaín na Gaeltachta. |
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| An lámh in uachtar | The Upper Hand | ||||||||||||
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Is díreach nach gá dóibh cead isteach a iarraidh, an dtuigeann tú? Tagann siad d’urchar a bhainfeadh an dánaíocht d'aon mhuc ar a tairsing fhéin
an grianghraf sin a thóg sibh leis an instamatic i dtús an scéil an ghrian ag scalladh, is sibhse istigh sa phuball bhuel, tá lorg a mhéire anois greanta go deo air sin is ar na rudaí beaga do-fheicthe atá mar thonn ardmhinicíochta i gcluas do mhadra
is is cuma cé mhéid a sciúrann tú aon dromchla ní ghlantar rian na láimhe, nó cé mhéid uair a mhalartaíonn tú ord na leabhar chun gur agat a bheadh an focal deireanach
is deacair d’anáil a tharraingt san aer a fhágann siad ina ndiaidh.
Ar maidin ba mhaighdean do theach
a tógadh le cruinn-chúram, chomh dílis sin gur roghnaigh céadgha gréine maidin reoch an ghrianstad cóngar a dhéanamh idir dhá ghéag giúise
trí phánaí déghloinithe a scagann na dúile, a léas a dhíriú síos an chistin thar leacracha brúite a bhí socair ar feadh deich milliún bliain, nó breis – cá bhfios? – nó gur aistrigh sibh féin anuas ón Chlár iad
is ceartlár an iarta a aimsiú
ach osclaíodh cnaipí muiníl a gúna is ardaíodh a sciorta uch, an mhéarnáil mhíchuibheasach is iachall ort féachaint n’fheadar cá bhfuil ár gcuid rudaí beaga caite anois nó an mbraitheann siad an t-uaigneas céanna?
Agus ceist eile: cioca againn a bhí dár gcosaint ag an lámhainn laytex a snapadh go leitheadach amhail is gur chúram máinliachta a bhí ar bun a d’éiligh saineolas?
Is cuma cé mhéid sciomradh a dhéanaim tá rian na póirseála greannta i scailp na meabhrach a fhágann parailís a mhúineann an seanacheacht gur fusa ar uairibh géilleadh don lámh in uachtar mar a dhein Jonah i mbolg an mhíl. An é ná creideann tú mé? Seo, cuir do lámh sa chréacht is geallaimse duit go mbraithfir.
Amuigh, an mhaidin cheansa so tá crónán beiche is an lasair choille ag lorg síolta
tá na glasa á n-ullmhú cheana agaibh don oíche ach tuigeann sibh nach aon téagar doras is nach éifeacht geata sleamhnaíonn an mhallacht rúnda so mar nathair dheataigh ó sheomra go seomra cad chuige an folúsghlanadh go léir, a deir tú? Ní féidir liom a cheapadh go mbeadh fríd-challóga dá gcraiceann in aon seomra liom, abair go líonfainn mo scamhóga go tobann chun sraoth a ligint nó go sciúgfainn gan choinne i lár na hoíche - b'fhéidir go lonnódh cáithnín ionam. A Chríost! Ní fhéadfainn é sin a sheasamh.
Gach seachtain déanann branda úrnua de phúdar níocháin a dhícheall ar mo shon mar go bhfuil rianta bonn a mbróg fós ansan ar urlár m'aigne, ní fheiceann éinne eile ach mé féin a thuilleadh iad
agus inár dtearmann, san áit is dlúithe ár ngrá bolaím fós a anáil sa seomra, faighim iarbhlas bréan im bhéal mar a bheadh rud éigin go doimhin istigh im lár tréis bháis
agus tá. |
It’s just that they don’t need to ask permission to enter, do you understand? They come all of a shock that would subdue the nerve of any pig on its own threshold
that snapshot you took with the instamatic when the story began the sun beating down, you both in the tent well, the dent of his finger has now eaten into that for good and into those small things, invisible like a high-pitched frequency in your dog’s ear
and no matter how much you scour any surface the handprints remain, or how many times you change the order of books so that you’d have the last word
it’s hard to draw breath in the air they leave in their wake.
This morning your house was virgin
built stone by stone, with such truth and care that the first beam of icy solstice sunrise chose a shortcut between two pine branches
through element-filtering double glazed panes, stretched itself along the kitchen above compressed flags lain still for ten million years, or more – who knows?- until you brought them from Clare yourselves
and hit the hearth dead-centre
but the neck-buttons of the dress were opened, the skirt lifted ugh, the hostile groping and you there, forced to watch I wonder where our little effects are dumped now or whether they feel just as much alone?
And another question: which of us was meant to be protected by the laytex glove conceitedly snapped on as if about to undertake some surgeon’s task that required expertise?
No matter how much I scrub the marks of their touch still remain etched in the cleft of the brain, leaving a paralysis which teaches the age-old lesson that sometimes it’s easier to yield to the upper hand just like Jonah in the whale’s belly. You don’t believe me? Here, slide your hand in the wound and I promise you’ll feel.
Out in the gentle morning a bee hums and a goldfinch scouts for seeds
already you’re preparing the locks for nightfall but you know that no door is a barrier no gate a defence this curse snakes darkly like curling smoke from room to room what’s all the hoovering for, you ask? I cannot endure that tiny shreds of their skin would share my space, imagine if I filled my lungs suddenly to sneeze or if I gasped unexpectedly in the middle of the night - maybe a mote would settle inside of me Christ! I couldn’t stand that.
Every week the latest brand of washing powder does its best for me because their shoe prints are still there on the floor of my mind, no one else sees them any more except myself
and in our refuge, where our love is most secure I still smell his breath in the room, there’s a rancid taste in my mouth as bad as if something deep inside had died
and has. |
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