An Charraig	The Rock
An Charraig (sliocht)	The Rock (excerpt)
Déarfá gurbh ann ariamh di. Í ina carraig chomh storrúil damanta mór . . . Mór millteach. Agus téagarach. Charnódh a ceathrú fiú na céadta tonna meáchain ar aon scála ar domhan. Go dimhin, ní carraig ach oílcharraig. Fathach-charraig. Dia-charraig … Í sáilbháite go leisciúil i sméar mhullaigh an chnoic - go sócúil compordach cheapfá, mar a sciorrrfadh go ceanúil d’ainsiléad Dé. Í ina máistir. Ina máistir feiceálach. Ina hardmháistír ceannasach, cumasach. Thar a bheith ceannasach cumasach ag breathnú - fiú más i ngan fhios agus dá hainneoin féin é. I ansiúd ag bearnú na mílte amharc i bhfáithim dhraíochtúil ildathach na spéartha. Níor ghéill an charraig ariamh d’aon tsúil ná sleasamharc dá ghéire, dá láidre, dá impíche. Rinnesclábhaithe feacúla adhrúla díobh dá mbuíochas ag urá a n-amharc. A cos i dtaca, sheas an fód go huasal dalba. Tostach. Marbhthostach. Tost críonna brionglóideach na haoise: na n-aoiseanna. A cruth sainiúil tostach féin aici ón uile mhíle uillinn sleasach. Síorathrú ar a síorchruth dá corp rocach carraigeach - na céadta leiceann uirthi: na céadta glúin: na céadta colpa: na céadta cluas: na céadta boiric: na céadta clár éadain: na céadta faithne: na céadta goirín: na céadta at: na céadta súil: na céadta gearradh drúichtín: na mílte céadta …	You could say it had always been there. An enormous rock. Damned strong. And bulky. Even a quarter of it would weigh hundreds of tonnes on any scale. I’m telling you, it wasn’t a rock but the mother of all rocks. A giant of a rock. A god among rocks . . . Stationed, at ease, on the top part of the hill - all comfy and cosy, you’d think, like it was tipped lovingly into place by the hand of God. It was like a Lord. An eminent Lord. A powerful, commanding Lord. Looking just the part, either despite itself or without knowing it. Interrupting thousands of glances at the magic, multi-coloured hem of the sky. The rock gave way to no-one’s eye or side-glance, no matter how keen, strong or imploring. It made them submissive, bent-necked slaves for their trouble, eclipsing their view. Planted there, it stood its ground with daunting authority. Silent. Deadly silent. An ancient, dreamy silence that was timeless. Its own silent shape from a thousand different angles. Forever changing the look of its wrinkled, rocky body’s eternal shape - with hundreds of cheeky slopes, knee-like steps, calfshaped collops, ear-like edges, sticky out bits, brows, warts, pimples, lumps, hundreds of eye-shaped features, hard skin, split ends, trillions of things.

		mícheál ó conghaile b.1962
	Ealaíontóir/Artist: Peannaire/Calligrapher: Aistritheoir/Translator: Ainmníodh ag/Nominator:	Steve Dilworth Susan Leiper Frank Sewell Cathal Ó Searcaigh

 

[close window]

Jump to top