Poetry

by Aonghas Pàdraig Caimbeul

**
Tha mi sgrìobhadh
ann an inc do-fhaicsinneach na Gàidhlig
le sgàthan air a’ bhalla
ga leughadh an taobh eile.

I write
in the invisible ink of Gaelic
with this mirror on the wall
reading it backwards.

**
An dòigh ’s a chuireadh tu d’uillinn air a’ bhòrd,
a’ lùbadh a-null am ionnsaigh
mar gun robh mo làthaireachd
nas blasta na na bobhlaichean spìosrach
a bha air ar beulaibh,
a dh’fhàg sinn falamh
aig deireadh na diathad.

The way you’d put your elbow on the table,
leaning over towards me
as if my presence
was tastier than the spice bowls
in front of us,
which we left empty
at the end of the meal.

**
Fhios againn a-nist
gur e dìreach Iain Mòr a bh’ ann,
siota geal mu cheann, a’ cur an eagail oirnn,
agus fhios againn cuideachd
gu bheil a’ ghrian dol timcheall na talmhainn
’s gu bheil na sìthichean a’ dannsa ann an sgàthan,
mar nach robh fhios againn air sìon ro chraobh an eòlais.

Now we know
that it was just Big John
with a white sheet over his head frightening us
and we also know
that the sun goes round the earth
and that the fairies dance in the mirror,
as if we didn’t know anything before the tree of knowledge.

**
An dòigh a cheangail thu do chòta
mar gum b’ urrainn dhut, aig diog sam bith,
fhuasgladh a cheart cho dòigheil.

The way you buckled your coat
as if you could, at any moment,
unbuckle it when the sun was hot.

**
Cha do dh’aithnich mi do ghaol gus an duirt thu
‘Thig a-staigh on uisge.’
Bha i air sileadh fad an là:
sguabadh a nuas on iar-thuath,
tighinn na chnapan tuilteach,
’s chaidh mo ghlacadh ann
ged a chuala mi am forecast is a dh’aindeoin mo dheagh bhrògan
agus, a’ gabhail fasgadh fon chraoibh,
chuala mi do ghuth sa ghaoith
‘Thig a-staigh on uisge.
Siuthad, Aonghais. Thig a-staigh, a-mach as an stoirm.’

I only recognised you loved me when you said,
‘Come in out of the rain.’
It had poured  all day long:
sweeping in from the north-west,
carried in lumps and gusts,
and I was caught in it
despite knowing the forecast and wearing my fine brogues
and there, sheltering behind the tree,
I heard you call through the wind
‘Come in out of the rain.
Here, Angus. Come in, out of the storm.’

**
Chan eil sìon air fhàgail
san t-saoghal
ach thusa is canach an t-slèibh.

There’s nothing left
in the world
but you and the bog-cotton.

**
An dòigh sa bheil a’ ghrian
a’ soillseachadh tron dubhar,
a’ ghràidh.

The way the winter sun
shines through the darkness,
my love

**
Be tusa an aon tè
air am biodh miotagan, samhradh is geamhradh.
An geamhradh a b’ fhèarr,
an dòigh a thug thu dhìot iad
aig toiseach a’ chlas
agus o chionns gun robh do làmhan fhathast fuar
mar a chuireadh tu iad air an teasadair faisg orm
agus as t-samhradh
an fheadhainn mhìn lìn ud
a rùisgeadh tu dhìot gu cùramach
mar gun sgriosadh aon ghluasad cabhagach
a h-uile nì bha cumail na cruinne ri chèile.

You were the only one
who wore gloves, summer and winter.
Winter was best,
the way you removed them
at the start of the class
and because you’re hands were still cold
held them over the radiator next to where I sat,
and in the summer term
those delicate lace ones
which you peeled off ever so carefully
as if one hurried move would destroy
everything that sustained the whole universe.