| Paddy | Paddy |
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| Paddy (i ndil chuimhne) | Paddy |
| ‘Did ya hear about Donal’s wee brother?’ a scairt Chips liom thar longbhá an tábla, callán an ghrúpa. Trí fhaobhair bhána feedback ón Fender. An t-inneal toite is an smúit. Mé ar seachrán, ag mairnéalach, smaointí místiúrtha faoi lán seoil, ag bádóireacht ar thonnta chordaí is riffeanna, as mo cheann ar Bush is raithneach, ag gig éigean, víbeanna ag bleaisteáil. Is chuala me do scéal, a Phadaí óig, thaibhsigh tú i gcuan cáiteach mo chuimhne an oíche ólta sin le d’fholt dubh, tiubh, slíoctha, cíortha siar ó d’éadan muscach inar neadaigh lonta dubha do chuid súl. Padaí óg na good looks. Gléasta i do chulaith fhaiseanta nua néata gan smál a chuir poll i do phóca. Wee Paddy a thug muid ort is tú thar sé throigh nuair a lean tú lorg do dheartháireacha ba shine, cárta bréagach aitheantais i do ghlac, do phas go Kelly’s, Lavery’s, Robinson’s, le bheith ag guaillíocht leis na meisceoirí eile, caillte i gcathair ghríobháin round síoraí. Sa deireadh go Londain thall, ar lorg luach do shaothair. Pubanna is clubanna a d’oirfeadh do chulaith is úire, d’acmhainn – gone where the sun is shining thru the pourin’ rain where the weather suits my clothes |
‘Did ya hear about Donal’s wee brother?’ cried Chips through the din of mates manning the shipwreck-table, the white noise of the band, his mouthed words parrying blades of cranked up Fender amp feedback, cutting through the smoke and fog machines. We had spliced the mainbrace and become unmoored with Bush and grass, drifting over looped chords and sinnets of riffs. It was some gig or other, good vibes crackling through the valves and leads. And as I heard your story, Paddy, you ghosted into the squally harbour of memory, sleek dark hair combed off a dusky forehead where your blackbird-eyes nested, dressed in your latest slick-cut suit that burned a hole in your pocket. We called you wee Paddy though you were over six feet when you trailed us, flashing phoney ID to the monkeys on the door of Kelly’s, Lavery’s, Robinson’s, where you’d go to rub shoulders with other mates lost in the submarine labyrinth of an eternal round and finally, fed up with it all, to London. |
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Gearóid
Mac Lochlainn |
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| Ealaíontóir/Artist: Peannaire/Calligrapher: Aistritheoir/Translator: Ainmníodh ag/Nominator: |
Brian Maguire Réiltín Murphy The Author The Author |
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