When he died, we laid him out in his Sunday best (he only had one suit to his name....) and had, as he requested, a true wake. I remembered the day he came to the hospital to see his first grand SON ..smiling through tears and telling me how happy he was that I could give him this gift .....imagine.
I looked in vain for an Irish poem fit for a daughter to give to her
da today ....but what I found was fitting, because sometimes I, too,
hear my father speaking to me ....across time and space through the
bond of love that holds us.
|
An Scáthán Michael Davitt |
An Crann Faoi Bláth / The Flowering Tree: Contemporary Irish Poetry w/ Verse Translations edited by Declan Kiberd & Gabriel Fitzmaurice Dublin: Wolfhound Press, 1991 |
| The Mirror - translation by Paul Muldoon |
(i gcuimhne m'athar)
I.
Níorbh é m'athair níos mó é
ach ba mise a mhacsan;
paradacsa fuar a d'fháisceas,
daelbh i gculaith Dhomhnaigh
a cuireadh an lá dár gcionn.
Dhein sé an-lá deora, seirí,
fuiscí, ceapairí feola is tae.
Bhí seanchara leis ag eachtraí
faoi sciurd lae a thugadar
ar Eochaill sna triochaidí
is gurbh é an chéad pháirtí é
i seirbhís Chorcaí/An Sciobairín
amach sna daicheadaí.
Bhí dornán cártaí Aifrinn
ar mhatal an tseomra suí
ina gcorrán thart ar vás gloine,
a bhronntanas scoir ó C.I.E.
II.
Níorbh eol dom go ceann dhá lá
gurbh é an scáthán a mharaigh é...
An seanscáthán ollmhór Victeoiriach
leis an bhfráma ornáideach bréagórga
a bhí romhainn sa tigh trí stór
nuair aa bhogamar isteach ón tuath.
Bhínn scanraithe roimhe: go sciorrfadh
anuas den bhfalla is go slogfadh mé
d'aon tromhanáil i lár na hoiche...
Ag maisiú an tseomra chodlata d*oacute;
d'ardaigh sé an scáthán anuas
gan lámh chúnta a iarraidh;
ar ball d'iompaigh dath na cré air,
an o*iacute;che sin phléasc a chroí.
III.
Mar a chuirfí de gheasa orm
thugas faoin jab a chríochnú:
an folús macallach a pháipéarú,
an fhuinneog ard a phéinteáil,
an doras marbhlainne
a scríobadh. Nuair a rugas ar an scáthán
sceimhlíos. Bhraitheas é ag análú tríd.
Chuala é ag rá I gcogar téigli:
I'll give you a hand, here.
Is d'ardaíomar an scáthán thar n-ais in airde
Os cionn an tinteáin,
m'athar á choinneáil
fad a dheineas-sa é a dhaingniú
le dhá thairne.
I
He was no longer my father
but I was still his son;
I would get to grips with that cold paradox,
the remote figure in his Sunday best
who was buried the next day.
A great day for tears, snifters of sherry,
whiskey, beef sandwiches, tea
An old mate of his was recounting
their day excursion
to Youghal in the Thirties,
how he was his first partner
on the Cork/Skibbereen route
in the late Fourties.
There was a splay of Mass cards
on the sitting-room mantelpiece
which formed a crescent round a glass vase,
his retirement present from C.I.E.
II
I didn't realize till two days later
it was the mirror took his breath away.
The monstrous old Victorian mirror
with the ornate gilt frame
we had found in the three-storey house
when we moved in from the country.
I was afraid that it would sneak
down from the wall and swallow me up
in one gulp in the middle of the night.
While he was decorating the bedroom
he had taken down the mirror
without asking for help;
soon he turned the colour of terracotta
and his heart broke that night.
III
There was nothing for it
but to set about finishing the job,
papering over the cracks,
painting the high window,
stripping the door, like the door of a crypt.
When I took hold of the mirror
I had a fright. I imagined him breathing through it.
I heard him say in a reassuring whisper:
'I'll give you a hand, here.'
And we lifted the mirror back in position
above the fireplace,
my father holding it steady
while I drove home
the two nails.
