Alison Ni Dhorchaidhe

Tha mo chom a’ seinn rid bhòidhche
‘s mo chuislean ‘g èigheach luathghair:
tha m’ fhuil uile mar fhìon cròiceach
a’ cur thairis cuaiche:
fa do chomhair, a thè bhòidheach,
‘na mo cheann dà mhìle smeòrach
ann an coille òig ri ceileir:
‘na mo chluais deich mìle seillean.

Tha mo chom ri mire-chatha,
armailt fo bhrat buadhach,
Goll is Fionn a’ cur an latha,
Caoilte ‘n trèine ‘luathais.
Bhon as tu mo chèile còmhraig,
buaileam le deich mìle pòg thu;
bhon as tu mo chonnspann àraich,
‘s e strìochd do bhuaidh, a thè àlainn.

Tha m’ eich chrodhant air a’ mhachair
dian an toiseach ruaige:
ghabh mi ‘na shuaicheantas an lasadh
tha nad rudhadh gruaidhe.
Ge b’ e chòmhraigeas am blàr thu,
‘s tus’ as fheàrr na Conall Ceàrnach,
na Diarmad, Osgar, no Cù Chulainn;
mo bhuaidh-sa tuiteam fod bhuillean.

’S e am bristeadh a’ bhuaidh-làraich
ann am blàr an aoibhneis:
air na thachras ‘s ann bhìos mànran
‘s òl an talla Maebhe.
O thè bhuidhe, o thè bhòidheach,
‘s i do ghruag a’ bhratach shròiltean,
‘s e do chliabh geal am magh èibhneach,
buaidh is caithream air a rèidhlean.

Tha mo chom a’ seinn le sòlas
ann am mullach saidhbhreis:
tha cuirm is caithream do bhòidhche
a’ lasadh mìle coinnlear.
‘S e t’ aodann lurach, a ghaoil nìghne,
a’ Ghearmailte an ceòl na fidhle;
‘s e a’ chaoine is an drithleann
bh’ aig Alba ann an ceòl MhicCruimein.

Tha mo chom a’ seinn le faoilte
‘s e air àird a’ mhonaidh,
ag amharc a’ cheò ghil a’ taomadh
‘na ghlumagan solais.
O thè bhuidhe, o thè èibhneach,
annas t’ aodann mo bheinn grèine,
agus ‘s e do ghiùlan lurach
m’ fhiùran dìreach, mo ghleann giuthais.

Tha mo chom a’ seinn le ciùine
ann am beul na h-oidhche
bhon a dh’fhoghlaim e gach iunntas
tha san aigne shaidhbhir.
O thè bhòidheach, ‘s tu mo shireadh,
mo sheun, mo Ghile na Gile,
mo shàr-cheòl thar shèistean àlainn,
mo rann faodail thar gach bàrdachd.

Tha mo chom a’ seinn le caoine
ann am meadhan oidhche
bhon a dh’fhoghlaim e gach iongnadh
as caoimhe coibhneas.
O nighean, ‘s tusa Sgrìob Chloinn Uisnigh
le bann de rionnagan dùmhail,
‘s tu Arcturus agus Bheunas,
crios is truaill an t-Sealgair reultaich.

~ Somhairle MacGill-Eain

  [It is not] by absence of mind and dreaming that one can impose on speech such precious and rare arrangements.  The true condition of a true poet is as distinct as possible from the state of dreaming.  I see in it only willed inquiry, suppleness of thought, the soul’s assent to exquisite constraints, and the perpetual triumph of sacrifice.
     It is the very one who wants to write down his dream who is obliged to be extremely wide awake…
     Whoever says exactness and style invokes the opposite of a dream; whoever meets these in a work must presuppose in its author all the labor and time he needed to resist the permanent dissipation of his thoughts… And the more restless and fugitive the prey one covets, the more presence of mind and power of will one needs to make it eternally present in its eternally fleeting aspect.

- Paul Valéry

(via Muse Daily)

I feel that politics and linguistics have really bullied my spirit for inspiration of late. I feel so strongly about political justice, and yet it doesn’t seem to prompt a creative response in me. I look at Somhairle MacGill-Eain, who wrote fantastic poems of great political conviction and passion, and I feel that my inability to write on the subject is a failing on my part. I would like to take up a ‘bardic’ position, so to speak, in order to give voice to the politically voiceless in this fraud of a democracy. I want to write blistering satires on the perpetrators of political, social and economic injustice. As far as language is concerned, I’m aware that my standard in the minority language that I choose to write creatively in does not satisfy everyone. I feel barbed wire squeezing around my tongue when I attempt an emotional or creative utterance in such a beaten language. I look to the likes of Somhairle for hope, when all I feel is my own failing and lack of inherited tradition in comparison. However, to remain silent is to die. Not only would I have my own death on my hand, but the deaths of ideas, feelings, and the deaths of the languages I choose to write in.

This comes from the poet who visited me in a dream and told me not to cry over love, because “tears are wasted poetry”. (Beannachdan dha anam!)

Gabh a-mach às mo bhàrdachd,

’s tu mo chuthach, aodainn àlainn,

trìd nach tug mi ‘n t-suim bu chòir dhomh

do churachd is do fhàs nan dòchas

no do ghnìomhadh nan rann seòlta.

Cha d’ rinn mi leat mar bu chaomh leam

an tuigsinn no atharrachadh an t-saoghail;

cha d’ lean mi aon riamh gu crìch leat:

dh’fhàgadh staoin is cam gach strì leat

agus mi fhìn le rann neo-bhrìoghmhor.

Gabh a-mach às mo chuimhne,

’s tu mo chuthach is mo chuingeadh,

agus mi nis aig ceann aon tòrachd

nas failmhe, fainne ‘s eugmhais dòchais

na na bha mi nuair a thòisich.

Gabh a-mach às mo bhàrdachd -

’s tu mo bhreisleach, aodainn àlainn!

Get out of my poetry,

you, my madness, lovely face,

because of whom I failed to dedicate due attention

to the sowing and the growing of hopes

or to the shaping of accomplished verses.

Because of you I failed to act as I would wish

in understanding and in changing the world;

I pursued nothing to its conclusion:

because of you every struggle was left crooked and twisted

and I, with insubstantial verses.

Get out of my memory,

you, my madness and my bondage,

and I, now pursuing is at an end,

emptier, weaker and more devoid of hope

than I was when I began.

Get out of my poetry,

you, my delirium, lovely face!

Somhairle MacGill-Eain

(pp. 48-51 in the new fabulous collected poems, Caoir Gheal Leumraich | White Leaping Flame, edited by Christopher Whyte and Emma Dymock!)