Here, then, the first of two that must melt some among you crowd.
Of uncertain age & anonymous origin (mark Woolf’s words: Anonymous was a woman), this is one of many traditional poems that speak w/ a sweet, absurdly sly tone of ordinary human desire - something utterly absent from the courtly poetry of the bards....
|
Tú Féin is Mé Féin
Gan ainm |
An Duanaire 1600 - 1900 (Poems of the Dispossessed) edited by Sean Ó Tuama Dublin: The Dolmen Press / Bord na Gaeilge, 1981 |
| Yourself & Myself - translation by Thomas Kinsella |
Má thagann tá choíche
ná tar ach san oíche
is siúl go réidh
is ná scanraigh mé:
gheobhaidh tú an eochair
faoi sháil an dorais,
is mé liom féin
‘s ná scanraigh mé.
Nil pota sa mbealach
ná stól ná canna,
ná súgán féir
ná ni faoin ngréin;
tá an mada chomh socair
nach labharfaidh sé focal
ní náir dó é,
‘s maith mhúin mise é.
Tá mo mhaimi ‘na codladh
‘s mo dhaidí á bogadh,
‘s ag pógadh a béil,
‘s ag pógadh a béil,
nach aoibhinn di-se
‘s nach trua leat mise,
‘mo luí liom féin
ar chlúmh na n-éan.
There’s no pot in the way
no stool or can
or rope of straw
- nothing at all;
the dog is quiet
and won’t say a word -
it’s no shame to him:
I’ve trained him well.
My mammy’s asleep
and my daddy is coaxing her
kissing her mouth
and kissing her mouth;
isn’t she lucky...
Have pity on me
lying here by myself
in the feather bed.
Next (by another post): a delectable modern rendering of a similar theme, by the magnificent Nuala Ní Dhomnaill.
Not that youse will deserve a word of it...but even so....
