Christmas is just around the corner
"Yeah, well, so what?" I hear you say
Call me romantic, naive or childish

I love the children up at 6 on Christmas morning, unable to wait to open the presents
I love the wonder and starry eyed pleasure they show so un-self-consciously
I love how quickly they tire of the sophisticated toys and end up playing with the packaging
I love the delicious smells from the kitchen, while we enjoy the pre-dinner
drinks, the good conversation, the pleasure of being together with those we love
I hate the thought that there will be two empty places around the table this year.

Tá béile mór na Nollag thart.
Bhíothas go fial flaithiúil orainn á scaipeadh.
Itheadh le faobhar is floscadh súp soilire,
Turcaí, bágún, píoga is anois "mince tarts."
Ár mboilg lán, ár gcnámha ag lorg suaimhnis,
suímid scaithimhín eile thart faoin mbord.
Scaipeann coinneal na Nollag a sholaisín caol orainn
is lasann caortha craorag' an chuilinn go seoigh.

Comhairím a bhfuil i láthair. Táimid go léir ann
ó b'ananamh dúinn bheith anois ar aon láthair amháin.
Tá na gearrcaigh óga le fada scaipthe
i mbun a gcuid neadracha féin; is í seo athchuaird an tseanáil.
Is déarfá go rabhais iata i gcás na n-éan teochreasa
i nGairdín na nAinmhithe leis an ngeoin is an chlibirt cheart -
úrbhéal ar chuid againn, a thuilleadh dínn síos go gunail
le dreoch is meidhréis, le callaireacht is creaic.

Go hobann ta ciúneas. Tá aingil ag gabháilt treasna
an dín; sa fholús ligeann duine éigin sraoth.
Bail ó Dhia a ghuímid ar ár dteaghlach beannaithe;
brúchtann gaoth aníos ó dhuine eile, gáirimid is deirimid
cé gur galáinte suas é gur síos is fearr é.
Táimid seanchleachtaithe ar na seananathanna
is cé nach mbaineann siad puinn níos mó lenár saol
táid i gcónaí againn ar bharra na teangan.

Éiríonn mo dhaertháir is téann sé chun an dorais.
Deir sé gur dóigh leis gur chuala sé cnag lasmuigh.
Ach nil éinne ann, amuigh sa doircheacht
níl duine ná deoraí, níl críostaí mhic an luain.
"Dhera, saighead a bhuail do chuluais, tá na daoine maithe
ag siúl na gcnoc anocht aríst ní foláir.
B'fhearra dhuit teacht isteach is an doras a dh'iamh
go tarpaidh ar eagla go bhfaighimis poc," arsa fear

na gcleas inár lár, is cloisim sa rí-rá
daoine ag caint ar Naomh Micheál Ard-Aingeal
'ár gcosaint in am an chatha is conas a chuir
an phaidir seo clabhsúr ar eagla roimis na mairbh
is leis na deamhain aeir is le sluaite uile an oilc.
Ardaím mo shúile is lasmuigh den gciorcal draíochta
chim loki is tá bogha drualuis aige ina láimh.

Tá sé á theannadh go meallteach leis an seanduine dall
Is é ag bladar leis gan staonadh ó fhoscadh
An chrainn daraí. Seachain, ní ar do chluais a thitfidh
An chéad saighead éile, a Bhaldar, a dheartháirín ionmhain.

Christmas Dinner  
trans., Michael Hartnett

The Christmas meal is over.
We were quick to knock it back.
We lapped up celery soup with zest
turkey, bacon, pies and now, mince tarts.
Our bellies full, our bones around the table.
The Christmas candle throws its little light
and the scarlet holly berries glow.

I count those present.  We're all there
(seldom now together in one place).
The fledglings are long scattered
making their own nests - we are the old clutch.
You'd swear you were caged with the tropical birds
in the zoo with the chirping and fluttering,
some mouthing, the rest up to the gunnells
with drink and jollity, with noise and craic.

Suddenly there's silence.  An angel passes over
the roof.  In the quietness - a sudden sneeze.
We call God's blessing on our house.
Someone farts.  We laugh and say
"Better down than up!"
We're well used to the old saws
(although they have nothing to do with our lives
they come readily to our lips).

My brother stands up, goes to the door.
He thinks he's heard a knock.
But there's no one there, out in the dark
not a soul, nor a sinner, no Christian being.
"Dhera, an arrow struck your ear - the fairies
I'm sure are walking the hill.
You'd better come in and close the door
for fear we'll get a puck,"

said the trickster in our midst, and I hear in the babble
someone speak of "St. Michael the Archangel
our protection in time of battle," and how
this prayer ends all fear of the dead,
fear of demons of the air and all evil things.
I raise my eyes and outside the magic circle
I see Loki, a bow of mistletoe in his hand,

He offers it beguilingly to the blind old man
Waffling away from the shelter
of the oak tree.  Listen, 'tis not your ear
the next arrow will strike, Baldor, beloved brother.