Amhrán Mhis ag Grianstad an Gheimhridh	Song of Mis at the Winter Solstice
Amhrán Mhis ag Grianstad an Gheimhridh	Song of Mis at the Winter Solstice
Oícheanta seaca i mbile cille mar éan i ngreim i nglae lem chleití flichreocha síos liom in aon bhrat oighir, an dá chois crochta asam mar phrátaí seaca ag ceangal de ghasa fada feoite, chanainn caintic na maidine, imní ag giollaíocht ar mo sheamsán dóchais is reo na maidine ag athreo, mo chuisle ceoil ag cuisniú is ag titim ina gháire dóite. Is bheinnse imithe ar eadarbhuas ar bhaothréim siúil ag lingeadh léimeanna ó leamhan go hiubhar mo chíoradh féin ar dheilgní an droighin im ghealt mar shíleadar, murach istigh im shlaod smeara san idirfhásach idir ghealtacht geilte is gealtacht duine cuimhne ag goradh is ag spriúchadh teasa …	Nights of hard frost in the holy tree trapped like a bird with wet frozen feathers I’d lay myself down in a sheet of ice my feet sticking out, frost potatoes clinging to long withered stalks, and sing morning’s canticle; hagridden, trembling on the drone of hope, frost of morning hardening again, my pulse of song freezing and falling into bitter laughter. I’d be away in a dizzy flight in mad career in springing leaps from elm to yew harrowing myself on spines of blackthorn, half-crazy the people thought, only that deep in my marrow, deep between marrow and bone, between the lunatic madness and the madness of a sane woman memory was nesting, brooding, sputtering with damp heat . . .

		Biddy Jenkinson b.1949
	Ealaíontóir/Artist: Peannaire/Calligrapher: Aistritheoir/Translator: Ainmníodh ag/Nominator:	Geraldine O’Reilly Frances Breen Theo Dorgan The Author

 

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