{see: Blodeuwedd, by Taliesin]
|
Blodewedd Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill |
Treasury of Irish Love: Poems, Proverbs & Triads edited by Gabriel Rosenstock New York: Hippocrene Books, 1998 |
| Blodewedd - translation by John Montague |
Oiread is barra do mhéire a bhualadh orm
is bláthaím,
cumraíocht ceimice mo cholainne
claochlaíonn.
Is móinéar féir mé ag cathráil
faoin ngréin
aibíonn faoi thadhall do láimhe
is osclaíonn
mo luibheanna uile, meallta
ag an dteas
an sú talún is an falcaire fiain
craorag is obann, cúthail
i measc na ngas.
Ní cás duit
bínsín luachra a bhaint díom.
Táim ag feitheamh feadh an gheimhridh
le do ghlao.
D'fheos is fuaireas bás
thar n-ais sa chré.
Cailleadh mo mhian collaí
ach faoi do bhos
bíogaim, faoi mar a bheadh as marbhshuan
is tagaim as.
Soilsíonn do ghrian im spéir
is éiríonn gaoth
a chorraíonn mar aingeal Dé
na huiscí faoi,
gach orlach díom ar tinneall
roimh do phearsain,
cáithníní ar mo chroiceann,
gach ribe ina cholgsheasamh
nuair a ghaibheann tú tharam.
Suím ar feadh stáir i leithreas
na mban.
Éiríonn gal cumhra ó gach orlach
de mo chneas
i bhfianaise, más gá é a thabhairt
le fios,
fiú barraí do mhéar a leagadh orm
is bláthaím.
frond by frond, lured to unfold
and exhale in the heat;
wild strawberries rife, and pimpernels
flagrant and scarlet, blushing
down their stems.
To mow that rushy bottom;
no problem.
All winter I waited silently
for your appeal.
I withered within, dead to all,
curled away, and deaf as clay,
all my life forces ebbing slowly
till now I come to, at your touch,
revived as from a deathly swoon.
Your sun lightens my sky
and a wind lifts, like god's angel,
to move the waters,
every inch of me quivers
before your presence,
goose-pimples I get as you glide
over me, and every hair
stands on end.
Hours later I linger
in the ladies' toilet,
a sweet scent wafting
from all my pores,
proof positive, as if a sign
were needed, that at the least
touch of your fingertips
I break into blossom.
