It can be seen not only in those Irish poets who write in English, but in the works of those committed to the First National Language - as witness this poem by Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill, a wry & charming update of the theme of Shakespeare's Sonnet 130.
|
Mo Ghrá-Sa (Idir Lúibini)
Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill |
Selected Poems: Rogha Dánta Dublin: Raven Arts Press,1986 |
| My Own Love (In Brackets) - translation by Michael Hartnett |
Nil mo ghrá-sa
Mar bhláth na n-airní
Ar bhíonn i ngairdín
(nó ar chrann ar bith)
is má tá aon ghaol aige
le nóiníní
is as a chluasa a fhásfaidh siad
(nuair a bheidh sé ocht dtroigh síos)
ní haon ghlaise cheolmhar
iad a shúile
(táid róchóngarach dá chéile
ar an gcéad dul síos)
is más slim é síoda
tá ribí a ghruaige
(mar bhean dhubh Shakespeare)
ina wire deilgní.
Ach is cuma sin.
Tugann sé dom
Úlla
(is nuair a bhíonn sé i ndea-ghiúmar caora finiúna).
and if he's anything to do
with daisies
it's from his ears they'll grow
(when he's eight feet under)
His eyes do not shine
like a mountain stream
(they're much too close-set
to make him a Hollywood dream)
and if silk is smooth
the hairs of his head
(like Shakespeare's Dark Lady)
are thorny wire.
But it doesn't matter.
He gives me apples
(and when he's in a good humour
he gives me grapes).
