The Ofi Press Magazine
International Poetry and Literature from Mexico City
Doireann Ní Ghríofa grew up in Co. Clare, Ireland. Her poetry has been published in several anthologies and journals. She was among the prize-winners at the Oireachtas Literary Awards 2010, was shortlisted in Comórtas Uí Néill 2011, and was awarded an Arts Council Bursary. Her second collection, Dúlasair, is published in 2012.These poems present Doireann's work in English and Irish and were published in Issue 21. Map was published in Issue 23.
Tóraíocht ag Tóin TobairSrac sé slí trí sceach is dris Go dtí gur shroich sé Sean—tobair a shinsir, is Leag sé an leac ar leataobh Do dhamhs’ dúradán deannaí Ar an aer, bhí na ballaí bíse breac Le crotal is caonach. Ghlan se síoda damhán alla Ón sean—phróca suibhe Shín sé é i dtreo na huisce Le cogar ciúin cuilithín Shín lámh geal ar ais chuige As dorchadas an duibheagáin Shlog sé siar uisce, An blas beo ina bhéal Chuir sé an leac ar ais ina áit Chas sé a dhroim, is D’imigh. | He Seeks Answers in the Mouth of a Well He shoved a sharp path Through brambles and briars Until he reached the deep Well of his people. Lifting the slender slab that leant Against the stone opening, he watched Motes like moths float on the air The well’s walls slick, Mottled with moss and lichen Spiralling down to unknown depths. He washed webs from the old jam jar, stooped to fill it, as a pale hand reached Up from ripples with a wistful whisper, unseen. He gulped the cold water, the taste tingling On his lips, then replaced the slab And turned away. |
CrannIdir dall is dorcha Lasann loinnir deire gréine Mo ghúna grástúil órga Teanntaíonn teannóga Coirt mo choirp. Sa smearsholas, Suíonn scata smólaigh Ina neadacha, iad síolta mo smaointe. Éiríonn is eitlíonn siad uaim, Mar smaointe scaoilte, Scaipthe sna scamaill spéire. Maisím mé féin, le Réalta reatha idir ghéaga gharbha. Sáim mo fhréamhacha I gcré na hoíche, is Súim súilíní drúichtín. Sínim i dtreo dorchadais: Mo ghrá gheal A phóg fuar ina shíoda I ngach pholl folaithe. | TreeAt sunset, see my gown Of burnished bark burn, Tightened by tendrils of ivy. Hear birds nestle in my nests, Their flight — My thoughts made motion. I sink my toes into soft night soil, Sip dew drops, and Adorn myself with shooting stars That glint in tangled twigs. I stretch toward the dark: My lost lover His cold embrace Creeps into every crevice. |
Samhradh, 1955Seasann tú, Bródúil I scáileanna dubh ’s bán Taobh le teach nuathógtha Lán le macallaí na nua. Seasann tú, Caol chomach Gealgháireach Le méar gan lúb Le súil gan buairt, Leanbh láidir Le leiceann luisneach Lúbtha timpeall ort. Síneann bóthar garbh Gairbhéal romhat. | Summer, 1955 There you stand, Proud in shadow play of shade and light Next to a newly-built house Full of new echoes. Slender—waisted, You stand, smiling, with Untwisted fingers, Unworried eyes. A raw-cheeked baby Clings to your hip. The roughly gravelled road Stretches before you. |
Map
An Léarscáil
Luí sí ina leaba Léarscáil á léamh aici Le lonrú lampa. Rith sí méar mall Síos fána fada An géag galánta Dromlach sléibhte sínte Ó fásach go Antartach. Nuair a chuir sí cos Ar an sliabhraon céanna, Seasta scartha Idir an t—Airgintín agus an tSíle Níor mhothaigh sí géire an mhapa. D’éirigh agus d’ísligh na sléibhte, An sneachta ag lonrú orthu Go geal, cuma chomh bog orthu Le blaincéad bán a leaba sa bhaile. | Map
She lay in bed Reading a map by lamplight, Her little finger running Down the long, slender limb. She gasped at the sharp spine, the razor ridge That stretched almost From desert to Antarctic. When finally she stood Upon that vast mountain range Between Chile and Argentina, She shivered in the shady slope, The seeming sharpness of the map Suddenly softened As dazzling snow glare glistened On gentle folds and peaks, As soft as the downy duvet On her bed at home. |