Altachadh Dail na Cabaig

 

Altachadh Dail na Càbaig (Altù Dail na Cábaig)

 

Altù traidisiùnta a faightì i mòràn ceantair ar an Ghaidhealtachd (Highlands of Scotland). Tà idir greann a’s grà ann: meascàn atà ’Gaelach’ go maith,

I dTochar (School of Scottish Studies), uimh 17, 1978 a fuaireas-sa è. Tà Dail na Cábaig i gceantair Lorne, Argyll, deirtear.)

 

‘Fhir a mheudaich a(m) bolla míne.  (mheadaigh: Bèarla “boll”) (Nìorbh è leithèid Gladstone atà i                                                                     gceist, ar ndóin, ach Dia

A’s a laghadaich a’ phrìs,                   (laghdaigh)

Thoir toradh na mara gu tìr,               (tabhair)

Cuir sìth eadar choimhearsnaich.       (siochàin: idir)

Bí again, bì leinn, bi ‘nar measg.

Beannaich sinn;

Beannaich a bhean ‘s a’ chlann;

A’ chearc bhuidhe ‘s na h-eòin,

Cairistìona ‘s na pàistean. 

Chan iarrainn do shòlas san domhainn ach buntata na Daileach Cuinge,      (Nì h-iarrfainn: prataì)

Uisge na h-Allta Duibhe,

Agus casan fada ‘son dol troimh ‘ abhainn                                                     (cosa: trìd an)

A’ chuir an each  a Creag an t-Sagairt,                                                           (as)   

Agus a bhith ‘n Dail na Càbaig gu siorram sìorruidh 

Fáth Mo Bhuartha

 

Culture is not museums, books and cell service. It is that system of understandings and practices which supplies ordinary people with tools with which to live in an imperfect, often heartbreaking, world that never stops challenging us. In a society whose traditional culture has collapsed, as most have today under the pressure of “nothing matters but profit” economies, each individual must figure out their own individual way of understanding and living in the world, and that is no easy task. 

 Many of the people of traditional Irish and Highland communities in the nineteenth, early twentieth, and probably earlier centuries were deeply cultured. They lived gracefully, skillfully, elegantly, sustainably, within the limits of their possibilities. (Possibilities that by modern times were admittedly quite limited.)

 

I’m not claiming this because “The  Backward Look” nostaligia or because “Ireland, Boys, Hurrah!”  Most impartial observers at the time noted the fact. (Those who were afraid that the dark oppressed masses would rise up to cut their throats or decrease their profits…Not so much. They saw barbarians.)

 

“I have wandered amongst the peasantry of many countries,” folk-tale collector J.F. Campbell wrote in 1860, “and…There are few peasants I think so highly of, none that I like so well. Scotch Highlanders have many faults, but they have the bearing of Nature’s own gentlemen--the delicate natural tact that discovers, and the good taste that avoids, all that would hurt or offend a guest. The poorest is ever the readiest to share the best he has with a stranger…I have never found a boor or a churl in a Highland bothy.” (I’m quoting from his introduction to Popular Tales of the West Highlands.”)  The same was true of traditional Ireland.

(Anna Nic a' Luain, Na Cruacha Gorma)

Many of these people were also immensely learned in traditional lore and literature, and took everyday pleasure and delight in language. As poet Maire Mac an tSaoi said; “When a Dingle Peninsula man had time to reflect on what he was about to say, what came out was poetry.” She is not talking about fancy discussions of art and philosophy, but everyday conversation about everyday things. A ceili was originally not manufactured entertainment, but a nightly gathering of neighbors to tell stories, sing songs, discuss history and important current matters.

Mary Macdonald of Garryheillie in South Uist in the Highlands (1897-1977) left school at age fourteen and spent her working life as a maid, then as a crofter’s wife. She knew more than two hundred songs, passed down to her by her mother and other women; many of the songs very old and rare...and great That is not all:  “Even if she had never sung a song, Kate MacDonald would have been memorable--for her humanity, her dignity, her sparkle, her ready wit and her infectious sense of fun,” folk-tale collector Donald Archie MacDonald wrote. She was only one of hundreds in the Highlands and still Irish-speaking parts of Ireland in the early twentieth centuries.

 

George Campbell Hay (1915-1984) was brought up in Tarbert, a small town in the far southwestern Highlands. His father, a minister, died when he was four, so his mother returned to her family’s native area, (Tarbert) where George soon discovered the submerged Gaelic language culture of the community.

 “Och, when I was about six, I started asking them (his two great aunts) what was the Gaelic for this and what was the Gaelic for that, and so on, and that’s how I learned Gaelic.”

 

He also learned the language from fisherman Calum Johnson: “And in front of Dougie Leitch’s shed there used to be a log where they sat down and talked, and I don’t remember when I first met Calum, but he used to go round and sit on the log and talk, you know, and I was small and I sat down beside him and talked to him, and I got to know him that way; and his boat was out there, and I said, “Oh, I’ll go fishing” to him , so I went fishing with Calum.”

 

In 1881, the census noted about 70% of the population of the town as Gaelic-speaking, but by 1921, it was down to 26%, and was only used by older people in situations like “on the log.” Similarly to Douglas Hyde in late nineteenth-century north Roscommon, George Campbell Hay got to know the last representatives of an old world. He absorbed their implicit cultural teaching, and, adding to it a deep self-taught knowledge of Irish and Scottish Gaelic literatures, he went on to become one of the three great twentieth-century Gaelic poets -- writers of world stature. (I will admit that much of the world, and particularly the U.K., has not caught up with the fact yet.) (The other two are Sorley MacLean and Aonghas MacNeacail, both of Skye.)

I’m hoping, after posting The Civilization of Cats, (incoherent and poorly-argued as it is) that I don’t have to go too far explaining why the following poem is not a sentimental exercise in nostalgia: “To My Gran.” The poem takes its place in a large body of Irish, Scots Gaelic and Welsh poetry in praise of a person (or people, in this case). These poems don’t exist because the people who made them were simpering flatterers. Traditional Irish/Gaelic/Welsh culture never went in much for abstractions. Values, ideas and life paradigms were always presented as embodied in person, in story. There are no essays on how to rule a kingdom. Instead, there is the Deirdre story, and others. There are no philosophical treatises on how to live; instead, there are poems like the following, where “The Good” is embodied in a specific person’s doings.

 Cuimhneachain do Ealasaid agus Anna Nic Mhaoileain (Memorial for Elizabeth and Anna MacMillan)

 Is ann ‘nan laighe an Cill Aindreis

Tha dithisd bhan a dh’altrum mi,

Mnài ‘chuir maise air a’ bheatha-s!

Ged bu sean iad, le’n cuid gnìomh;

Ealasaid maraon as Anna,

Bha iad farsuing, caomh, neochrìon.

Thug iad saoghal mòr ri fialachd.

Is thug aon bhliadhna iad do’n chill.

 

It is in the graveyard in Tarbert

that two women who raised me lie;

two women who made life beautiful,

with their deeds, though they were old.

Ealasaid and Anna together;

they were hospitable, gentle and gracious.

They lived a long time giving,

And one year took them both to the grave.

 

Uaisle ghiùlain, cainnt ba chiùne,

Suairceas, sùnnd is crídhe mor,

Có a shaoileadh mnathan aosda

A bhith ‘nan aobhar ionghnaidh leò?

Mar sin bha Ealasaid is Anna,

Le sgairt a fhreadradh do’n aois òig:

Bha sean fharsuingeachd nan Gàidheal

A rìsd ‘nan gnàths a’ tighinn beò.

 

Nobility of bearing, gentle speech,

affable, cheery and great-hearted;

who would think that would be a cause

of wonder in old women?

That is how Ealasaid and Anna were,

with vigour as though they were young.

They had the old Gaelic breadth of spirit,

come alive again in the here and now.

 

An sean saoghal còir bha ‘nochdadh

Riamh tromhaibh ann gach ceum.

Feumaidh sinn a’ ràdh, mo thruaighe.

Gu’m “b’aisling uair éiginn e.”

Is maith a bhiodh sin dheth, a dithisd,

Na’fàgadh sibh mar ghibht ‘nur déidh,

S na’m faigheadh daoine an tsaoghail ghoirt seo

Leth nan sochair bh’annaibh fhén.

 

You called into being the old decent world

In everything you did,

but I must admit to my sorrow,

that this was a thing that was, and now has gone.

We would be better for it, you two,

if you had left a gift behind you,

and the people in this bitter world today

had half the virtues that you two did,

 

Ealasaid, you never bent your head or mind

To any worthless soulless thing.

Anna, who was generous and good-natured,

never closed her hand to others, or her door.

I see you gently smiling, at the head of the table,

sharing with everyone.

If you are still here in the old place,

you are a kindly and welcoming spirit.

 

(I translate from O na Ceithir Airdean, 1952, Oliver and Boyd.)

While MacLean was inspired by the incredibly intense and powerful Gaelic songs of the sixteenth and seventeenth-centuries, and MacNeacail by the contemporary, Hays was inspired by the older bardic poetry:

“For models of high artistic skill, one inevitably turns to the work of the bardic schools,” he wrote. “Dan Direach metres can be adapted by substituting a system of stress for the syllabic system, and by disregarding the rules about classes of consonants.” (It is necessary to add that he used caoineadh metre a good bit in his last poems.)

The editor of Collected Poems and Songs speaks of concision and restraint, and richness of ornamentation. (p. 504, 2003 paperback edition) and these are qualities that distinguish Hay's poetry.  The other quality is a lyric passion and intensity. It is altogether great.

His work has been collected in The Collected Poems and Songs of George Campbell Hay, edited by Michael Byrne, Edinburgh University Press, 2000.

 A’ Cheolraidh – Beatha Bun-os-Cionn

Thug mi an oidhche caithriseach                                (sleepless)

Gu camhanachd is fàire                                              (dawn: sun on horizon)

A’ cumadh air an rannaghail,                                      (keeping: poetry)

S’ an aicill  teachd ‘sa ga tàthadh                               (binding together)

Gun chlos on Cheolràidh fhiadhaich                          (respite: feverish Muses)

‘s an norran gnàthach cian uam,                                 (sleep)

Mar chomhachag no iasgair,                                      (owl)

No ialtaig nan sgàile.                                                  (bat: shadows)

 He returned to Tarbert in the 1980s, but Gaelic and the old world were gone. He ended up drinking a lot, and leaving.

His Gaelic, the Gaelic of Kintyre (Tarbert is in mid-Kintyre, and Kintyre is the long finger-like peninsula) is a link between the Irish of east Ulster, and Scottish Gaelic, as was Arran Gaelic, and that of Islay and Jura.  There are still Gaelic speakers in western Islay, but the rest has gone, as has east Ulster Irish.

 If you want to know more, and you like books, Nils Holmer’s The Gaelic of Kintyre (Dublin, 1962), and The Gaelic of Arran (Dublin, 1957), will tell you a lot about phonology, with some texts and grammar. There is also Nils Holmer’s The Irish Dialect Spoken in the Glens of Antrim (Uppsala Universitets Arksskrift, 1940) (about Glenarrif): Sgealtan Rachreann (Stories from Rathlin Island) (1910, Gill) and other collections from Aoidhmhin Mac Greagoir: Seosamh Watson’s edition of Seamus O Duilearga’s Antrim Notebooks, published in Zeitschrift fur Celtische Philologie: and The Rathlin Catechism of the early eighteenth century, which probably was written for Antrim Irish-speakers. There is a recent book that supplies the east Ulster Doegen texts (including Antrim) and situates them in a linguistic context (Ulster Gaelic Voices, Ni Bhaoill, 2010) but I don’t have a copy. O Doibhlin’s online work on the last east Ulster speakers is also very interesting, as is O Dochartaigh's on the Scottish Gaelic/East Ulster dialect area. (I must be thinking of Dialects of Ulster Irish, 1987, Institute of Irish Studies. Another book I have never seen.)

Rathlin was essentially a Scottish Gaelic dialect – in the sixteenth century, everyone there was massacred by the English – but the Glens are a very interesting transitional area, part of a sixteenth century MacDonald lordship that included parts of the Highlands and of Ireland.

The southwest Highlands is a distinctive linguistic area within the Highlands as a whole, and in its  vocabulary, it often agrees with (east) Ulster against the rest of the Highlands. For details, Seumas Grannd's The Gaelic of Islay: A Comparative Study, Department of Celtic, Aberdeen, 2000) provides discussion, and almost a hundred maps that show linguistic features and vocabulary for many points in the west Highlands south of Ardnamurchan, also giving comparative information for other areas and Ireland. It is great!

Antrim, Down, and then Derry/Tyrone (more or less), on the one hand, and Kintyre, Arran, and Islay/Jura, on the other, thus form the unit of transition between dialects in Ireland ("Irish"), and the Highlands of Scotland ("Scottish Gaelic").  One language, be it that society and culture have diverged since the 16th century.

If you’re not so keen on books, there is the Doegen Records site, which supplies recordings of the last speakers from the Glens of Antrim (and many other places), and the Tobar a’ Dualchais site which makes available thousands of tapes from the School of Scottish Studies. A representative Kintyre speaker is Neil MacDougal from Carradale.  Tobar an Dualchais Kist O Riches (By 1880, Carradale was one of the few places outside the English-speaking estate system in Kintyre, and was one of the strongholds of Gaelic in the early twentieth century. (But not now.) There is Adaimh O Broin’s Dalriada project, and another site that has posted recordings of the last mainland south Argyll Gaelic speakers. I thought that I had saved it, but now I can’t find it. I will keep looking.

I care about Irish and Scottish Gaelic and Breton and Welsh dialects because they speak the interaction of people, place and time over many many many centuries. They speak small-scale societies that show us how to live gracefully even in hard times.

 

Unfortunately, they are all going quickly. The languages may survive as standardized idiolects within a massive, top-down, standardized over-society, but their virtue lies not in Is and Tá, but in the fact they express an understanding of the world: the fact they express a way of living. We can look back at the documents these communities left behind, and draw a bit of nourishment from them, but…It is really a shame.

Sgéal

Breis beag a’s bliain ó shin, tráthnóna Samhraidh, d’airigh (chuala) mise agus mo bhean screád uathbhásach an bháis ón gcoill mór atá taobh thiar dár teach. 

“Ní foláir no go bhfuil uan ag  na daoine taobh linn, i ngan fhios duinn,” duirt mé le’m bhean, “agus go bhfuil an t-uan san ar strae sa choill.” 

Ach lean an t-uan air ag screadaigh in anaithe a bheatha. 

“In ainm Dé!” dúirt mo bhean.

Ritheamar isteach sa choill a lorg; agus fuair.

Ní huan a bhí ann, ach oisín, agus fisher cat – easóg mór, craosach, neamthrócaireach – a fiach; greim aige ar mhuineál an oisín, ag iarraidh é a leagadh, chun a stracadh as a chèile.

Chomh luath agus a thanamar-na ar an lathair, theith an fisher.

Ni ghá dom scéal Madra na n-Ocht gCos a dhéanamh de. D’fhéadfaímis siúl amach as an gcoill arís, agus ligint don oisin (na raibh ach coicís, dearfainn, slánaithe aige) agus don fisher: ligint do chúrsaí ”Nadúir” dul ar aghaidh…ach níor dhin. Thugamar agus na daoine taobh linn, thugamar  an t-oisín abhaile, agus é ag cur fola go tiubh agus ag meigligh go truaimhéileach.

Ní bhíonn cead ag aon duine baint le fia -- dul ag foirithint air no faic, -- sa state seo Mheiriceá (duiche mhór fiagaí í, ina mealltar an-chuid airgid ó allmhúraigh gach bhliain nuair a thagaid isteach chun dul ar thóir fia), i dtreo na raibh cabhair nó chomhairle ar fáil duinn, áit ar bith. Ag crith le huamhan romhainn a bhí an t-oisín, ar ndoigh, ach dhineamar (rinneamar) puball beag do taobh thiar den teach s’againne, sa tslí go bhféadfadh an mhathair teacht air istoíche.

Níor tháinig sí.

Is amhlaidh gur airíomar (chualamar) an oíche roimhe sin, coyotes ag fiach sa choill  in aice linn, agus is annamh a théann siadsan ar tóir creatúir, ná go faigheann siad gréim air sa deireadh. Ní foláir nó go raibh mathair an oisín marbh acu siúd, agus ba shin faoi ndéar don oisín a bheith ar strae ón áit dideán a bheartaigh a mhathair dó.

Cheannaíomar "all species milk replacement" sa tsiopa feirm. Gach dara uair ar feadh seachtaine, mar sin, lá agus oíche, ghabhamar chun an oisín le buidéil, duine againn a choimeád ina sheasamh, faid agus a bhí an duine eile ag tabhairt deoch dó.

Ní bhíonn ar chumas oisín déanamh dó féin nó go mbíonn bliain d’aois, agus bhi mo bhuachaill lag go maith, agus cos leis gortaithe. Is amhlaidh gur bhriseadh a mhuinéal freisin nuair a ionsaíodh é, ach amháin nár scar na cnámha óna chéile. D’fhag san ag féachaint fiarsceo i gcónaí é, tar éis don mhuinéal tearnamh, agus ní raibh ar a chumas béal a chur le féar no le talamh. Bhí luibheanna a thaithnigh go mór leis (caisearbhán, lus na sead, a’s mar sin de), agus ní raibh aon bac orainne iad a chruinniú dó. D’fhéacheadh sé féin chun duillóga crainn bheithe agus maple a sholáthar dó féin, nuair a fheabhsaigh sé. 

Chuireamar páil timpeall ar straice de sheana-mhóinéar atá taobh thiar den teach freisin, áit na raibh radharc ón mbóthar ar mo bhuachaill. Bhíodh scóip ag an oisín siúl ann. Siúl, sea, agus léim agus rith, mar tháinig an-chroí ann, tar eis míosa, agus neart ann de reir a chéile. Bhuaileadh sé go minic i gcoinne crainn ar tús, nuair na raibh radharc maith aige ar an rud a bhí ós a chomhair amach, ach i gcionn mí nó dhó, d’fhoghlaim sé conas an saol a laimhseáil go haiclí, caoch mar a bhí.

D’èirigh sè mór linn freisin.

Geimhreadh fada fíochmhar a bhí ann an bhliain sin, a’s thit mórán sneachtaigh, ach bhí sort bóthán beag tógtha againn don oisín, mar fhoscadh. Ghlanamar an sneachta ósna cósáin ann, tar éis gach stoirm, i dtreo go bhféadfaí siúl an móineár.

(Murach an páill, bheadh beirthe ages na coyotes ar an oisín istóiche. Is minic a dh’aireófaí (chloisfaí) iad istoiche ag fiach  sna coillte timpeall orainn. Níor nocht mathair ariamh ina dhiaidh sin, bíodh agus gur fhagamar slí di teacht chuige, agus gan teach nó faic eile ina aice a scannródh í.)

Teacht an earraigh, leageamar an paill, ag ligint don oisín siúl amach ar a thóil fèin. Tá bóthar ann ós comhair ár dtighe-ne, agus bóthar eile tamall uainn, agus bíonn cuid mhaith gluaisteáin ar rith ar an tarna cheann acu. Chun Seán (an oisín) a chur ag seachaint na boithre agus dhaoine, raghainn isteach sa choill mhór taobh thiar den teach ar èirí na greine gach maidin sara dtabhrainn agaidh ar an bpost agam sa baile mór (baile na fuil chomh mór sin, dáiríre.)  Chaithimis uair a chloig ann ag siúil duinn fèin.

I dtiús báire, is ar dualgaisí an lae san sa phost agam a bheinn ag smaoineamh, agus ar conas na raibh de uain agam a bheith ag bhalcáireacht sa choill. "Dhera, b’fhéidir, dá bhfánfainn san áit ina bhfuil mé gan chos nó lamh a bhogadh, dhéanfadh Séan dearmhad dom agus imeacht ar a scar féinig an mhaidin seo? Bhí mórán oibre le déanamh agam, really. Tá cuma air anois go bhfuil sé go maith gnóthach, a’s gur chuma leis cad a dhéanfainn-se."

Cóiscéim amháin i dtreo an bhaile agam, áfach, agus bhíodh sé le’m chois. Chun é a choimeád sa choill cuíseach congarach don teach s’againne – áit go mbeadh saor ó choyotes agus daoine – thugas faoi obair ann. Cnuasaigh mé beartanna mór de géaga móra a thit as na crainn, mar ábhar tine. Dhineas (Rinne mé) iad a cruachadh, tar eis dom iad a ghearradh comthrom. Thugas faoi ndeara go raibh mórán giuis bheaga marbh ina seasamh, agus leagas iad, agus d’ullaigh mar ábhar tine. Thugas faoi ndeara freisin gur thaithnigh cort tirim an bhile feá ó ghéaga a bhí cheana féin ar an dtalamh, go raibh an cort ag titim díbh, gur thaithnigh siad leis an mbuachaill, agus bhailíos (bhailigh mé) malaí de. (Ar nós crisps do fhia iad, dúirt mo bhean.)  D’fhoghlaim mé cé’n sort luibheanna, cé’n sort duileoga a thaithin leis, agus cá bhfaighfaí sa choill iad sin. Chaithimís an aga a lorg, agus a ithe nó a bhailiú.

Caitheamh aimsire brea, sa deireadh, agus an chuid a’b fheárr den lá

An ea? Tochailt sa choill in éineacht le fia?

Bhí dhá chuis leis, go bhfios dom. Ag obair as láimh a chéile a bheimís. Thuigeamar a chéile, i dtreo nach ghá focal a rá, cuid is mó den am. Uair taobh le taobh ag obair; uair eile, a’s is ar éigin a bhíodh radharc agam ar Sheán. Tá sásamh aigne in obair den tsaghas san in áit ina bhfuil a t-aer chomh milis le h-iocslainte sean-scéil; áit go líontar radharc, cluas a’s eile le hailleacht. Crainn mhóra a’s cinn bheaga; carraigeacha glasa loma; cré solashmar donn. Ciúneas, ach amháin ceol na n-éan agus luascadh gaoithe. Théith smaointe duairc, agus líon mo spiorád le solas.

Ba é Sean féin an tarna fáth a bhí leis. Mairtineach beag fia, ar strae óna chineál féin a b’ea é, ach bhíodh sé lán sport i gcónaí, a’s é dea-chríoch, lán géan  Ba bhreá leis rith, léim, agus cleasaíocht, agus é ag iarraidh orm mise a bheith mar phairtí leis sa rudaí san--ach ceart chomh  sásta nuair na raibh ionam a bheith.  Niorbh aon choileán é Seán, ná peata gadhair nó gabhair, áfach.  Ainimhí fiain a’b ea é, gach aon bhlúire de. Ag féachaint isteach ina shúile, ní fhéadfainn gan aithint gur neach é nár tógadh le bia stáin, a’s gur le saol eile a bhain sé, a’s é lom-direach, cruinn, folláin ann féin i slí na bíonn an chuid is mó desna daoine nó in ainimhithe “baile”..

Suile donna dorcha a bhí air, agus doimhneacht iontach iontu.

Bhain Seán leis an saol ‘lasmuigh:’ lasmuigh desna sráideanna agus desna pairceanna saothraithe; lasmuigh den teach (nó inneall) mór seo ina maireann furmhór an chine daonna go bhfuil airgead acu. Bhain sé leis an saol fiáin: saol atá neamhspleach  ar mhianta an chine daona agus beag-beann orthu: saol gur chuma leis pé acu an bhfuilimid ar ár suaimhneas ann, nó na fuil. Saol géar dáiríre, a’s faobhair air faoi mar a bheadh ar chlaidhimh. Ní bhíonn ag patachán coinín, abair,  ach b’fhéidir seans amháin sugradh sa mhónéir gan áire a thabhairt dona bhfuil timpeall air. An té na tabhrann áire, maróidh seabhac nó sionnach é ar áit na mbonn.  

Is annamh  a bhuailimid leis an saol san sa lá atá inniú ann, ach tá sé ann i gcónaí: amuigh san oíche, sa choill, sa riasc, sa bhfál, inár gcorp fèin agus inár n-aigne féin. Tá sé ann le chead an chine daona, dár linn, ach n’fheadar…

Buann dlíthe an tsaoil sin ar ár ndlíthe-se, agus is cuma má fhaighimid cruaidh dlìthe an tsaoil fiáin, ní féidir canceling a dhéanamh orthu. Rithfidh Dáil nó Congress dlí agus dlí eile a chuireann i gcoinne dlíthe an saol fiáin, ach is cuma.  Cé go dtabhrann an teach mór ina bhfuilimid inár gconaí faoiseamh duinne thar an méid a faigheann an coinín, ní bhíonn ann ach tamall, mar sa tsaol eile sin a mhairimid-ne chomh maith le cách. An sibhialtacht a iarran maireáchtaint beag-bheann ar dlíthe an tsaol sin, tiocfaidh deireadh ainnis lena réim.

Meileann muilte Dé go mall, ach meileann go mín.

Tá an saol sin cruaidh, ceart go leor. Nìl sé faireálta. 

Agus nach mar thoradh ar an méid sin a thóg an cine daonna saol dó féin, saol nios cinealta, nios deise, chun éirí amach as ár fuilteach saoil an Nadúir? An bhfuilim ag moladh go gcaithfimid uainn antibiotics, leabhair, fo-èadaigh, agus mar sin de, agus filleadh ar an Nadúr?

Nílim.

Táimid ag teitheadh leis na cianta anois ó "Nature red in tooth and claw," agus d’éirigh linn teach brea fairsing compórdach  a thógaint duinn féin, áit ina mbímid saor ón ár atá lasmuigh. Ach is ar ghaineamh a tógadh an teach mór, mar tógadh beag-beann ar dlíthe Nadúir é, agus tá an teach ag titim as a chéile anois le hAthrú Aeráide, a’s truailliú aer, uisce agus talamh. Tá an saol eile  – saol ‘Nadúir”, an saol fiáin –isteach an doras chugainn, agus cochall air, mar dhea.

Abhar scannradh, agus ní haon ionadh gur bhfearr linn casadh uaidh i ndóchas go n-aimseóidh  ár gcinn urra leigheas don rud atá ag tarlú. B’fhearr casadh ar an idirlíon, áit go bhféadfaí canceling a dhéanamh ar rud na taithníonn linn.

Duine acu siúd a theith, mise freisin. Cé go bhfuil conaí ormsa agus ar mo bhean i measc na gcoillte, b’annamh istigh ionntu mé. Ba mhinicí mé ag siúil sraideanna an bhaile mhóir, nó os comhair an ríomhaire.

Pé acu ceart nó cearr an saol amuigh, sé an saol i gcónaí é, agus níl aon cheann eile ann. Tá scannradh sa tsaol san na féadfaí a sheanadh, ach tá saibhreas a’s sástacht aigne and gliondar ann freisin, i slí na fuil san teach mór seo ina mairimid in aon chor, aon chor. Tá sástacht aigne ann nuair a tuigtear go bhfuil do chósa ar an dtalamh sa deireadh, mar dèarfá, agus na fuiltear ar strae i mbréag-ríocht bhaoth-aislingí siorcas an idirlíon. Tá saghas saoirse ann don duine, maireáchtaint i saol a bhíonn cruaidh uaireannta, ach atá fíor.

Rud eile: gach diail noimeád a mhairimid, iarran an saol san orainn tabhairt faoi ndéara go mairimid ar scáth a chéile, pé acu daoine, ainimhithe, nó eile. Iarran orainn tuiscint nach ‘rudaí’ na neachanna eile sin, agus gan de thabhacht iontu ach chomh fada a’s a bhaineann siad lenár ndualgaisí agus lenár mianta féin. Iarrann orainn an tsolas ghlórmhar a thaitníonn iontu súd agus tríthu siúd agus trís an saol san ar fad, a aithint.

Is annamh a thúgaimid faoi ndéara aon cheann de na rudaí sin a luaim, áfach, go minic toisc go bhfuil brú agus dithineas ro-mhór orainn: an ghnáth-shaol faoi mar a caitear san lá atá inniú, an dtuigeann tú…Ar strae ar an idir-líon a bhímid, nó ar strae inár gcuid smaointe féin, nó ag strachailt leis an saol, ag iarraidh dothain airgid a thuilleamh.

Bhí de bhua ag Sean na féadfaí, agus tamall a chaitheamh ina fhochair, féachaint air mar “rud.” Ní fhéadfaí gan an fíor-shaol – an seana-shaol -- a aithint. Ar talamh an tseana-shaol a sheas sé. 

Ní ag tagairt do sheana-shaol bocht an chruatain faoi mar bhí in Eirinn san 19u Aois atáim, ach don fhíor Sheana-Shaol: saol díreach, chomhachtach, solasmhar, neamh-scagaithe (mar déarfá,): an saol “fiáin.” Thugadh Seán mo dhúshlán, mise tabhairt faoi ndeara go mairim-se a’s gach aon duine eile sa tsaol san i gcónaí. Chuireadh sé de fhiachaint (de dhualgas) orm noitís a thógaint den tsaol san, a’s ligint do mo chuid  chúramaí a’s mo dhúil i dul chun cinn agus i dtae agus i’m mianta féin  titim uaim. Níl sa rudaí sin ach ceo, mar deireadh na sean-daoine. Tá fuascailt do-chreidte ann do dhuine, ligint  dá chuid tuairimí féin, dá fonn a’s eagla, titim uaidh, a’s éirigh as an síor fuirse agus an síor-lorg, agus aithint an ciúnas óllmhór atá laistiar de gach ní: an solas gliondnrach san.

Nílim ag rá gur pharty beag deas atá ann – soláistií agus bronntanaisí. Tá bás ann a’s briseadh chroí. Bíonn droch-sheans ann, agus aicíd, agus eile.

Sé an saol é, áfach. An saol ceart; an saol fírinneach: an seana-shaol fiáin.  

Sa deireadh, ní dideán ar an mbás ár dteach mór brea, ár n-inneall, ár n-intleacht, ár saibhreas. Tabharfaidh an bás amach sinn, dár ndeoin nó dár n-aindeoin. Ní dul as ag duine ar bith againn.

Nach fearr an tseana-shaol a fhoghlaim sula gcaitear amach ann sinn arís, a’s sinne chomh dall air, mar shaol, le bunóc nua-bheirithe?

Formhór na ndaoine a tháinic romhainn, bhíodar oilte ar na cúrsaí sin. Ní raibh aon dul as acu.

 Shilfeadh aonfhear gur dil do fein me nuair a luionn do'm mionn

a's go dteann dha dtrian sios diom nuair a smaoinim ar do chomhra liom;
sneachta siobhtha a's e a shiorchur faoi Shliabh Ui Fhloinn
a's go bhfuil mo ghra-sa mar bhlath na n-airni ar an droighheann donn.

Shil me fein nach ag ceasacht spre orm a rachadh gra mo chroi,
a's nach bhfuigfeadh se ina dhiadh me mar gheall ar mhaoin;
fa-raor gear nach bhfuilim fein a's an fear a chraigh mo chroi
a ngleanntan sleibhe i bhfad o einneach a's an an drucht 'na lui,

Ta feirin le me cheadshearc i mo phoca thios
a's fearaibh Eireann, ni leigheasfaidis mo bhron, fa-raor.
nuair a smaoinimse ar a chursai a's ar a chul brea donn,
bim ag gearghol os iseal a's og osnail go trom.....

 

Sea, chaithainnse filleadh ar an dtigh gach maidin, agus chaithainn ligint do Shean an lá a chaitheamh sa choill mhór dó féin. Ní bó é no gabhair, tar eis an tsaoil. Gach lá, d’filleadh sé um a 5 a chloig tráthnóna, agus b’é an diail é, é a choimeád as an ngairdín againn ansin. Bíonn blas ar duilleóga trataí agus arugula! Chun a áire a thabhairt ón arugula, ghlan mé cósáin tríd an raithneach agus na driseóga i móinéar eile taobh thiar den teach againn, agus d’aimsíomar mórán luibheanna deasa ann (Crainn bheithe; Lus na sead, agus eile), i dtreo gur chomh-tharraingteach an móinéar agus an gairdín.

Saol deas.

Bhí a fhios agam go raghadh sé faoi reith sa bhFomhair, agus go dtréigfeadh an chiall é, agus gan aon ní ar a áire ach ban-fhia: baol ann go n-ionsíodh sé rud ar bith a chuirfeadh bac air. Ba chuma liom fia beag martraithe dul i gleic le crann, ach coyote nó duine: sin scéal eile. Agus dá raghadh sé ar strae…

Ní raibh aon dul as againn, áfach, agus ní raibh le déanamh agam ach mo dhicheall. D’ullaímar pubal níos mó dó, don gheimridh a bhí le teacht.

Sos beag anois, agus Over to you, a Dhonnchaidh

A’s an minnean riabhach bu luime cliathach, le chuinnean fiadhta, as fiadhaich ceann, (Smooth: nostrils)

‘na chadal guamach an lagan uaigneach. Fo bhárr na luachrach ‘na chuairteig chruinn. (neat, comfortable)

 

(ó Oran Coire a’ Cheathaich le Donnchaidh Bán Mac an tSaoir)

 

Bidh gach frith gu líontach feurach, ‘S thèid na fèidh ‘nan èideadh suaicheanta (coill; full: distinctive)

Gu h-uallach binneach ceumannach ged-leumanach bior-chluaiseanach

Gu crócach cabrach cèirghealach, gu magach eangach èildeagach (quickfooted: white-rumped: many hinds: many fawns)

Gan grianadh sa mhíos Chèiteannach, air slios an t-slèibh mun cuairtaich iad… (May; )

 

Bidh am minnean úrar meanbhbhallach gnos tioram air a’ ghnúis bu sgeinmeile, (fine-spotted; inquisitive)

Gu mireanach lúthmhar anmadail, ri slinnean na h-earb an guailleachan: (doe; accompanying)

Bu chlis feadh pris mu anmoch iad, gu tric fo iochd nam meanbhchuileag: (quick: thickets: midges)

Gu sgideil gibeach gearrmhasach, an sliochd dh’an ainm na ruadhagan… (lively, trim)

(An scéal arís)

Mí ó shin, níor tháinig an buachaill abhaile ag an gnáth-am. Tamall ina dhiadh sin, d’airios (chuala mé) duine ag lámhach i gcuid eile den choill. Ní cheadaítear lamhach fia ach amháin sa tséasúr, ach bhí cuma aisteach ar Sheáin, a’s a cheann ar fiarsceo, a’s rith greannúr faoi. Tharlódh go lámhfadh duine é ar an dtuiscint go raibh aicíd ar an bhfia.

Chuairtíomar na coillte, ag glaoch air ina ainm, ach níor aimsíomar é, a’s níor tháinig abhaile. D’fhan an mias choirce ann gan aoinne a bhaint leis: lá, dhá lá, trí lá. Bhíomar riamh ag súil go n-éiródh leis filleadh ar gnáth-shaol a chomhlacaithe ar an gcoill, cè gur lag é an dóchas sin, dáiríre: bhíodh dua air féir nó aon ní eile a bhaint den talamh, a bheathadh féin. Bheadh cabhair éigin uaidh teacht i dtír, fad a shaoil. Bheimis brea sásta an chabhair sin a sholáthar dó, go háirithe ón uair a’s  go raibhh ceacht  ro-luachmhar a theagasc aige duinne, ach...Ní mar a síltear, a bítear.

Gach uair a raghainn amach ar chúl a’ tighe i rith na chéad seachtaine sin, mheasainn go bhfeacainn é sna gnáth-loganna ann. Ní raibh ann ach mo chuid smaointe féin ag iarraidh an saol a mhunlú de reir a mhian féin.  

Níor fhill Seán.

Sciortann an aimsir tharis orainn, agus le himeacht aimsire, téann sna cuimhní chinn a d’fhag Seán ina dhiadh. Bíonn an saol mór – saol seomra oifige: saol rachmhasach dall ár linne – ag brú timpeall orm arís, a’m mhúchadh agus a’m dhalladh. Níl de leigheas air ach teitheadh isteach san idirlíon arís.

Ach creidim anois gur shaol taibhse an gnáth-shaol faoi mar a caitear é, cuid is mó den am, sa lá atá inniú ann. Tá an saol gliondarach eile ann i gcónaí  áfach – an tseana-shaol fiáin agus an saol ceart -- bíodh a’s gur annamh a túgtar faoi ndéara é.

Tháinig Seán i bhfoirithint orm, ach d’imigh.

N’fheadar nárbh fheáirrde ár saol, sinne a bheith chomh gear-shúileach agus i lathair leis siúd, pe acu sa choill, nó san oifig é? Tá an sean-shaol lom dáiríre, chomh-mór iontaisí le haon sean-scéal nó scannán: chomh mór dainséar freisin. Iarran sé orainn féachaint air. Iarran orainn ár gcroíthe a oscailt dó, a’s ár meanma. Tá an ghrian ann i gcónaí; tá lá agus oíche; tá creatúri, gach duine acu lán scéalta duinn.

Tús na ruda, éirí amach as seomraí cúnga an idir-líon, a’s aghaidh a thabhairt ar an saol. Bhí d’ádh agam gur chuir Seán d’fhiachaint orm éirí, agus gur roinn tamall dá bheatha liom. Ormsa anois leanúint ar aghaidh, nó titim i’m chodladh arís.

(Rexroth a's a inion um 1950)

 

A Sword in a Cloud of Light

Your hand in mine, we walk out

To watch the Christmas Eve crowds

On Fillmore Street, the Negro

District. The night is thick with

Frost. The people hurry, wreathed

In their smoky breaths. Before

The shop windows, the children

Jump up and down with spangled

Eyes. Santa Clauses ring bells,

Cars stall and honk. Street cars clang.

Loud speakers on the lampposts

Sing carols, on juke boxes

In the bars, Louis Armstrong

Plays White Christmas. In the joints

The girls strip and grind and bump

To Jingle Bells. Overhead

The neon signs scribble and

Erase and scribble again

Messages of avarice

Joy, fear, hygiene and the proud

Names of the middle classes.

The moon beams like a pudding.

We stop at the major corner

And look up, diagonally

Across, at the rising moon

And the solemn, orderly

Vast winter constellations.

You say, “There’s Orion!”

The most beautiful object

Either of us will ever

Know in the world or in life

Stands in the moonlit empty

Heavens, over the swarming

Men, women and children, black

And white, joyous and greedy,

Evil and good, buyer and

Seller, master and victim,

Like some immense theorem,

Which, if once solved, would forever

Solve the mystery and pain

Under the bells and spangles.

There he is, the man of the

Night before Christmas, spread out

On the sky like a true god

In whom it would only be

Necessary to believe

A little. I am fifty

And you are five. It would do

No good to say this and it

May do no good to write it.

Believe in Orion. Believe in the night, the moon, the crowded

Earth. Believe in Christmas and

Birthdays and Easter rabbits. Believe in all those fugitive

Compounds of nature, all doomed

To waste away and go out.

Always be true to these things.

They are all there is. Never

Give up this savage religion

For the blood-drenched civilized

Abstractions of the rascals

Who live by killing you and me.

 From the book In Defense of the Earth, published in 1956.

 

  Laghan                                                                                              Laws

 

An-diugh                                                                                                 Today

Theid me dhan a’ mhonadh a-rithist                                                        I’ll go to the moor again

A choiseachd leis a’ chú                                                                          to walk the dog

(feumaidh neach a leisgeul                                                                     (One needs one’s excuse

Airson a bhith leis fhéin,)                                                                        to be alone)

 agus bidh am baile air mo chúlaibh                                                       the village behind me

Airson greis,                                                                                            for a time,

Gleadraich sluaigh agus a laghan.                                                          The clamour of people and their                                                                                                                     laws

Agus ann a seo, chí mi lagh eile,                                                            And here I see another law,

Lagh náduir, bith a’ stri gus a bhith                                                        nature’s law, being striving to be,

Agus bóidheach anns a’ chuid as motha,                                                and beautiful for the most part,

Gun ceart no ceárr a’ bonntain leis.                                                         Not touched by right or wrong.

 

Bu toigh leam riamh rudan fiadhaich:                                                     I always liked wild things,

Lusan a’ fás gun faighneachd,                                                                  plants growing without asking

Frainneach is fraoch le flúr…                                                                  bracken and heather and flower,

Agus gun teagamh, bidh tusa air m’inntinn,                                            and certainly I will be thinking of                                                                                                                     you…

 From the book Bailtean (Maoilios M. Caimbeul), Gairm, 1987.