{"id":31456,"date":"2010-12-30T08:24:24","date_gmt":"2010-12-30T13:24:24","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.sheilaomalley.com\/?p=31456"},"modified":"2020-11-16T09:20:40","modified_gmt":"2020-11-16T14:20:40","slug":"the-books-the-water-horse-by-nuala-ni-dhomhnaill","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.sheilaomalley.com\/?p=31456","title":{"rendered":"The Books: The Water Horse<\/i>, by Nuala N\u00ed Dhomhnaill"},"content":{"rendered":"

Daily Book Excerpt: Poetry<\/p>\n

The next book on my poetry shelf is The Water Horse<\/a>\"\"<\/i>, by Irish language poet Nuala N\u00ed Dhomhnaill.<\/p>\n

\n\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

\nPublished by The Gallery Press (I wrote about that here<\/a>), The Water Horse<\/i> is a collection of Irish language poetry, with translations done by poets Medbh McGuckian (post on her here<\/a>) and Eil\u00e9an N\u00ed Chuillean\u00e1in. Nuala N\u00ed Dhomhnaill only writes in Irish. She says she can’t hear the poetry in English, although she has tried. She also waits for translators to come to her<\/i>. If her poems don’t find translators willing to do the work, then they stay un-translated, and she is fine with that. Irish is her language. Her poetry is meant to be local. <\/p>\n

\n\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

“Irish is a language of beauty, historical significance, ancient roots and an immense propensity for poetic expression through its everyday use.” – Nuala N\u00ed Dhomhnaill<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

I saw her read at The Ireland House about 10 years ago here in New York. It’s a very small space, a house, and about 40 people sat in chairs in the little living room area. My friend Kate and I went. It’s one of those events that stays with you, for whatever reason. She herself was wonderful, and funny and articulate – I could have listened to her talk about how she wrote, and why she wrote, for hours. She was open about her struggles with postpartum depression and how the depression meds messed up her verse: “Prozac puts wallpaper over the abyss” is one memorable phrase I will always remember. I remember her also saying that once she was put on medication, her poems evened out, in terms of what they looked like. Her poems often have jagged line-endings, but once she was medicated, her poems became little boxes up and down the page. Fascinating. She’s a real artist. It was a beautiful night. I bought my copy of The Water Horse<\/i> there at the Ireland House that night, and Nuala signed my copy. <\/p>\n

She didn’t grow up in a solely Irish-speaking household. Her mother wanted her to learn English, and speak English. But she was drawn to the Irish language (spoken mainly by her father in the house), and has devoted herself to it. Her poems are spiky, personal, and funny. She was part of the group of Irish-language poets who came to full flower in the 1970s, a hearty group who support one another and translate each other’s work. Like many Irish poets, (or, I suppose, many poets in general), she is drawn to myths and how they inform us, speak to us. Ireland is a land dominated by its myths, and while N\u00ed Dhomhnaill does not only write about Irish myths (she has poems about Persephone, Daphne and Apollo), you get the sense that when she looks around her landscape she sees things others do not see. Her imagination is amazing. She married a Turkish geologist, and lived in Turkey and Holland for some time, and now she lives in Dublin. She speaks 6 or 7 languages. She has 4 children. She writes exclusively in Irish, despite pressure to do otherwise. Her work would have more “appeal”, blah blah blah. She does not care. She has followed her own talent. <\/p>\n

When she read at The Ireland House, most people in the audience obviously understood Irish. She also read each poem in English after the Irish, but it was so wonderful to hear the sounds of listening and laughter from the Irish audience. How wonderful to hear your language again. It’s a beautiful-sounding language (Youtube clip of N\u00ed Dhomhnaill reading her poem “Father” at the bottom of this post), guttural and yet light at the same time. She talked a lot about how translation can be a problem – you have to get the right<\/i> translator, someone who can imagine themselves into your poetic landscape, and find the perfect equivalent words in English (or whatever language). She talked about her relationship with McGuckian and N\u00ed Chuillean\u00e1in, and how good their translations were. A translation will never be A to B, because languages are all different. You have to maintain the rhyme scheme and meter, the flow of the verse, and yet find the right words to convey the meaning of the original. She had some great examples of problem-solving done by her two wonderful translators, and how innovative they were. <\/p>\n

Here is one of her poems I love. It shows her funniness, her anger, and her incorporation of myth and fantasy into the everyday. Posted in Irish, with English translation below.<\/p>\n

Bean an Leasa mar Shíobshiúlóir<\/big><\/p>\n

Do shuigh Bean an Leasa
\nisteach in iarthar na cairte
\nis do dhún sí an doras.
\n‘Féach i do dhiaidh ort’
\na dúirt sí lem’ fhear céile
\na bhí ag tiomáint abhaile
\ntar éis lá crua oibre san oifig.<\/p>\n

D’fhéach sé is chonaic
\nan bóthar lán suas d’earraí:
\nfístéipeanna, ceamaraí,
\nríomhairí is rudaí,
\n‘Cad chuige iad seo?’ ar sé.
\n‘Sin iad mo cholpa spré dhuit.’
\n‘Gan tú mhórligint dom,
\ntá mo dhóthain agam cheana acu.’<\/p>\n

‘Féach i do dhiaidh ort,’ ar sise arís
\nis nuair a d’fhéach sé thar a ghualainn
\nbhí an bóthar lán de chapaill mhóra,
\ncapaill ráis is capaill oibre.
\n‘Seo mo cholpa spré dhuit
\nis an dtaitníonn siad leat?’ arsa mo bhean.
\n‘Ní thaitníonn siad ná tusa ach chomh beag,’
\nis do choinnigh sé a shúile scamhaite
\nar an roth tiomána.<\/p>\n

‘Feach i do dhiaidh ort,’ ar sise
\nis dhein bean chomh breá dhi
\ngur thit m’fhear céile
\ni ngrá léi láithreach.
\nD’imíodar den mbóthar
\nis n’fheacasa ó shin é.
\nBíonn sé ag tiomáint juggernaut<\/i>
\ntré bhóithre iarthar Chorcaí
\nis an diabhal de dhalladh faoi.<\/p>\n

Is dúirt bean liom go ndúirt
\nbean léi go mbíonn sé ag gabháilt timpeall
\nna tíre i dteainc mór groí,
\nna mionnaí beaga is na mionnaí móra
\ná stealladh aige deas is clé,
\nag rá i measc rudaí eile go maróidh sé
\nmé fhéin, is na leanaí is a Dhaid
\nis Uachtarán na Mac Léinn.<\/p>\n

Bhuel, tá mo lámhasa glan air.
\nÉ féin an leaid.
\nDeineadh sé pé rud ar bith is áil leis.
\nTáim saor air, by<\/i> deaid.
\nNíl ach aon rud amháin le rá agam
\nis é á rá agam gan stad:
\ngurb í siúd atá á ghriogadh
\nchun na n-oibreacha seo ar fad.<\/p>\n

\nThe Fairy Hitch-Hiker<\/big><\/p>\n

The Queen of the Fairies
\nSat into the back of the van
\nAnd closed the door.
\n‘Look behind you’
\nShe said to my husband
\nDriving home
\nAfter a hard day at work.<\/p>\n

When he looked he saw
\nThe whole road full of stuff:
\nVideotapes, cameras,
\nComputers and all,
\n‘What’s this for?’ says he.
\n‘My dowry to wed you.’
\n‘Not to offend you,
\nI have enough of them already.’<\/p>\n

‘Look behind you,’ she said again
\nAnd when he looked over his shoulder
\nThe road was full of great horses:
\nRacehorses, ploughhorses.
\n‘More of my dowry
\nAnd how do you like it?’ she said.
\n‘I don’t fancy your dowry or you,’
\nHe said, and kept his eyes
\nOn the steering-wheel.<\/p>\n

‘Look behind you,’ she said
\nAnd became so beautiful
\nThat my husband fell
\nIn love with her on the spot.
\nThey turned off the road
\nAnd I haven’t seen him since.
\nHe’s driving a juggernaut
\nOn the roads of west Cork
\nAnd he’s the devil to drive.<\/p>\n

And I heard on the grapevine
\nFrom a woman in the know
\nThat he’s raving around
\nThe roads in this huge tank,
\nCursing and swearing
\nRight and left
\nInter alia that he’s going to
\nDo for me, the kids and his old fella
\nAnd the President.<\/p>\n

Well, I wash my hands of him.
\nHe’s the lad,
\nHe can do what pleases him.
\nI’ve cleaned my slate.
\nAll I have to say
\nTill the cows come home
\nIs that she’s the one that started
\nThe whole affair.<\/p>\n

\nHere’s N\u00ed Dhomhnaill reading her poem “Father”, in one of a series of short films featuring Irish-language poets:<\/p>\n

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