I think McGuckian took some liberties with the translation?

That's something we've discussed here before... how in poetry it becomes particularly obvious that the treacherous work of translation from/to any language is how the emotional, sensual & aesthetic aspects of the original work can can lost.

After all, poets don't just stumble across their words: their patterns, sounds & affects are absolutely central to what the writer is creating.

In this case, the fact that the translation is by another poet, another Irishwoman, means it isn't completely divorced from the linguistic & cultural context, as too often happens. But McGuckian's personal style is dramatically different from Ní Dhomhnaill's & can't help influence how she reads this poem into a second language.

Compare, as another example, these different translations of Ní Dhomhnaill's "Oileán":   by Michael Hartnett  &  by John Montague.

At least most published translations of Ní Dhomhnaill's work into English have been done by other poets, & that makes a difference in quality, IMHO.

Anyway, here's one more, more or less on this subject:

Ní labhraíonn sí a thuilleadh liom, an áit seo,
Is níl aon bhuanaíocht ag mo theanga níos mó inti.

Níor chuaigh mo phréamhacha síos ach fad áirithe
is táid ag dreo anois cheal taca uaithi.

Caitheadh salann ar an scraith uachtair
is treabhadh síos é go dtí an t-íochtar.

Ní féidir léi tál a thuilleadh ar a muirín
ar mo thalamh féin is fás coimhthíoch mé.

II

Ar an mbóthar idir dhá chathair
go bhfuil dhá ainm ar gach ceann acu
léim na focail ar na comharthaí.

Táim ag taisteal trén bhfearann breac
is tá dhá ainm ar gach baile ann

Claonadh – Clane
Cill Dara – Kildare
Baile Dháith – Littleton
Cúil an tSúdaire – Portarlington

an t-ainm dúchais
sa chló iodálach
claoninsint ar stair na háite,
an t-ainm dúchais
sa chló is lú
faoninsint ag dul ó chlos . . .

III

Ag taisteal dom trén bhfearann breac
téim ón dubh go dtí an geal
ag gluaiseacht ar m’aistear claon
is fiar é an bealach a théim.
Is mé an ridire a ghabhann an timpeall
d’fhonn teacht de ruathar aniar aduaidh
ach tá caisleáin ann nach n-ionsód
is cléirigh romham gur mór a mbród
mo ríon féin is baolach nach gcosnód,
táim teanntaithe ag ceithearnaigh sa ród.

IV

She won’t speak to me anymore, this place
my tongue is received with poor grace.

My roots penetrated only so far
and they wither for lack of water.

Salt was spread on the upper scraw
and ploughed through to the lower layer.

She can no longer nourish her brood,
In my own land as a stranger viewed.

II

On the road between two cities
each of which has two names,
I read the words on the signs.

I am travelling through the speckled land
and every town here has two names.

Claonadh – Clane
Cill Dara – Kildare
Baile Dháith – Littleton
Cúil an tSúdaire – Portarlington

the native name
in italic script
a biased telling of the lore of place
the native name
in the lesser script
a muted telling, in slow fade . . .

III

As I travel through the speckled land
I move from white to black
my journey is taken aslant
the way I follow is zig-zagged.
I am the knight going the long way round
to attack from behind, to try to confound
but there are castles I can’t assault
and clerics before me, proud and preening,
I can’t protect my own queen even
my road is blocked by lowly pawns.

IV