Craiceann a shníonn
go gléineach thar do ghéaga
mar bhainne á dháil as crúiscíní
am lóin
is tread gabhar ag gabháil thar chnocáin
do chuid gruaige
cnocáin ar a bhfuil faillte arda
is dhá ghleann atá domhain.
(Leaba Shíoda)
Tags: gaeilge filíocht gaelainn leaba-shíoda mná éire
Beatha
- do Mháire Mhic Amhlaoibh,
An Fál Mór, Co. Mhaigh Eo.
- Níor airigh tú caint ar an slabhcán? -
arsa Mary Nell le hiontas,
an slabhcán a bhailíodh sí ina gearrchaile di
ar charraigreacha an Fháil Mhóir,
a thugadh sí abhaile
is a ghearradh go mion, é a bhruith ainsin le deoirín uisce.
Nuair a d'fhuaraíodh sé dhéanadh sí leac -
an blas a bhíodh air leis an ngráinne salainn!
Níor bhlais Mary Nell an slabhcán le dhá scór bliain:
- Ní bhadrálann éinne thart anseo a thuilleadh leis,
Róleitheadhach atá siad.
Ach an stuif sin a bhíonns ag fear an tsiopa
I bpotaí beaga a thigeann sé, dath pinc air -
'Yoghurt?'
- Yoghurt. Yoghurt!
M'anam go liveálfainn ar an stuif sin.
M'anam go liveálfainn air. -
Tags: ireland gaeilge éire fílíocht scéal-grinn witzig yoghurt
I believe hurling is the best of us, one of the greatest and most beautiful expressions of what we can be. For me that is the perspective that death and loss cast on the game. If you could live again you would hurl more, because that is living. You'd pay less attention to the rows and the mortgage and the car and all the daily drudge. Hurling is our song and our verse, and when I walk in the graveyard in Cloyne and look at the familiar names on the headstones I know that their ownders would want us to hurl with more joy and more exuberance and more (as Frank Murphy used to tell us) abandon than before, because life is shorter than the second half of a tournament game that starts at dusk.
Dónal Óg CusackTags: ireland sport cork gaa hurling iománaíocht éire corcaigh iomáint spórt
I make my way back whistling. Gerry nods towards Mrs Brady who is standing beside the trolleys.
Morning, Mrs Brady, I say cheerfully.
I push her provisions out to the car.
Things are something terrible, she says. You can't trust anybody.
No.
It's come to a sorry pass.
It has.
There's hormones in the beef and tranquillizers in the bacon. There's men with breasts and women with mickeys. All from eating meat.
Now.
I steer a path between a crowd of people while she keeps step alongside.
Can you believe it - they're feeding the pigs Valium. If you boil a bit of bacon you have to lie down afterwards. Dear oh dear.
Yes, I nod.
The thought of food makes me ill.
The pigs are getting depressed in those sheds. If they get depressed they lose weight. So they tranquillize them. Where will it end?
I don't know, Mrs Brady, I say. I begin filling the boot.
That's why I started buying lamb. Then along came Chernobyl. Now you can't even have lamb stew or you'll light up at night! I swear. And when they've left you with nothing safe to eat, next thing they come along and tell you you can't live in your own house.
I haven't heard of that one, Mrs Brady.
Listen to me. She took my elbow. It could all happen that you're in your own house and the next thing is there's radiation bubbling under the floorboards.
What?
It comes right at you through the foundations. Watch the yogurts. Did you hear of that?
No.
I saw it in the Champion. Did you not see it in the Champion?
I might have.
No wonder we're not right.
I brought the lid of the boot down. She sits into the car very decorously and snaps her bag open on her lap. She winds down the window and gives me 50p for myself and £1 for the trolley.
Tags: food humour ireland éire scéal-grinn chernobyl healy sligo
What is that unforgettable line?
Samuel BeckettTags: theatre postmodernism éire 900
Iar gclos báis Mháire
i dtuairim cháich má fágbhadh m'ainnir faoi fhód,
níor bhuadhaigh bás ar Mháire im mheabhair-se fós.
Tags: love death ireland bás gaeilge grá éire gaelic
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