Homecoming/An bealach 'na bhaile. Selected Poems/Rogha Danta.

O Searcaigh, Cathal. Homecoming/An bealach 'na bhaile. chosen Poems/Rogha Danta. Indreabhan: Clo Iar-Chonnachta, 1993, 212p, paperback. English and Irish on dealing with pages. Heaney translated many of the poems.

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Galoots! Sin a bhfuil iontu," arsa Padaí. "Ach inniu tá traidhfil puntaí inár bpócaí thig linn an saol a ghlacadh cross réidh. An cuimhneach leat am an loose pork? " Nocht grian dhalltach ina gcoinne is chonaic mé a gcaipíní is a gcuimhní á ligean anuas acu diaidh ar ndiaidh, lena súile a chosaint ar sholas scéiniúil an lae. THE COLLOQUY OF THE ANCIENTS For Seosamh Ó Dubhchoin Hiúdaí and Paddy, the pensioners from Keeldrum, I heard them on an All-Souls Friday outdoor Gortahork put up place of work Musing at the rate of residing Which used to be a wild hassle to them on a daily basis And basically getting worse and worse Like blood strain and the gasping breath. "This country's sunk in shite, Paddy," stated Hiúdaí, his eye at the puppy puppy Who'd dropped a load in the midst of the line. "And the government's in charge, they are shiteing on us, morn until eventually eve, immense lumps of lies, and their very own negative mouths Denying an arsehole in themselves. " "Galoots is all they're! ," acknowledged Paddy. "But at the present time, a pound or in our wallet we will take on lifestyles with midlin' ease. Do you brain the time the meat was once loose? " The sunlight blinded all prior to them and that i observed their caps and stories Being leisurely tugged down, to protect their eyes from incandescent day. translated long island Frank Galligan UCHTACH Do Thomás Mac Giolla Bhríde Ansiúd i gceartlár charn an aoiligh atá an crann róis ag fás. Tá an boladh bréan ar gach taobh dó chomh maith leis an bhrocamas a chartar amach le haoileach na bó; rudaí raiceáilte atá imithe ó mhaitheas, brat staighre stróicthe, forc aon bheangán, seanscáthán craiceáilte, stól corrach; Iad clampáilte thart air pass teann, slabhraí a bhrúnn as a ghéaga an súlach agus i gcónaí bíonn sciotar an eallaigh splaiseáilte ar a chabhail; agus bíonn glamanna gáifeacha gaoithe ag glúrascnaigh fríd mar dhiabhail. Ach ní chuireann an truailliú ná an tuairteáil beaguchtach ar bith ar an róschrann. Beag beann ar mhiodamas, beag beann ar dhíobháil, ar neamhchead gach braighdeáin, nochtann seisean do ghrian an tsamhraidh cumhracht dhearg a chroí agus bronnann sé mil pass fial ar bheacha i gcomhair an gheimhridh. Macasamhail an chrainn search engine marketing, a Mhiley, fáisceadh tusa as saol a bhí dian agus is é do chinniúint riamh ó shin bheith beo i mbroid agus i bpian, ach is ainneoin gach mí-áidh agus smoladh, aoibhníonn tusa sa tsamhradh THE purple BADGE OF braveness For Tomás Mac Giolla Bhríde past within the middle of the midden, there's a rose-tree becoming. On both sides, the fetor hangs round the waste Cleared out with the dung of the cows: A torn stair-carpet, a one pronged fork, An outdated cracked reflect, a shaky stool; All clamped tightly round her — chains That squeeze the sap from her limbs; The skitter of the farm animals endlessly Splashing on her stem; And a frenzied baying wind Howling just like the satan approximately her. yet neither trash nor tempest Is a trouble to the rose. Little meas on dung or deprivation regardless of the tentacles that bind her She flashes on the summer season sunlight, The pink succulence of her middle And to the bees her honeyed breasts to maintain them for the wintry weather.

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