Bàrdachd

by Crìsdean Macillebhàin

Gu dearbh bidh lorg den Bheurla ’na mo Ghàidhlig,
mar an lorg air ceumannan a’ mharbhaiche
a mhaireas anns an t-seòmar far an d’ fhuaradh
closach ’na laighe. Bha e caoin-shuarach

thaobh poilis, rannsachaidh, geur-leanmhainn
’s an lochd a choilean e cho foirfe, sgileil.
Ach co-dhiù bidh aon staing anns a’ ghnothach:
chan eil a’ chlosach marbh. Is urrainn dhi

mosgladh agus coiseachd. Bruidhinn cuideachd.
Chithear beag is beag gun d’ fhuair i sealbh
air gach maoin a bh’ aig a’ mharbhaiche,
a dh’fhàsas coimheach, diofaraicht’, mì-dhealbhaicht’

air a bilean is ’na dèiligeadh.
Is i toirt fianais anns a’ chùirt, bidh i
àrd-labhrach, fileanta, ’s cha bhi an slaightear
a’ tuigsinn fiù ’s càil de na tha i ’g ràdh.

*

Tha ’n cànan seo mar bhoireannach, is miann
cho anabarrach mòr air leanabh aice,
air an t-sìol fhaireachdainn a’ dol an tiughad
ann an doimhne a cuim, agus an dèidh

saothair chruaidh is cràdh uile na breith
(a bha cur eagal oirre cuideachd, ged
nach b’ ann gu leòr gus a mì-mhisneachadh!)
cùbhraidheachd ’s maoithe a naoidhein a mhealtainn,

air cho gleadhrach a ghearan is a ghul,
sinean a cìochan a’ fàs teannaicht’, rag
le pailteas bainne ’son a bheathachaidh -
gus na ràinig a mì-fhoighidinn

ìre ’s nach robh i miarraideach a thaobh
athar, sloinnidh no eadhon ainm - rinn i
mo roghainn fhìn, ’s nar dithis fhuair sinn gineal
fallain, tairbeartach is cuideachd dreachmhor.

*

“Nach bochd nach eil thu sgrìobhadh anns a’ Bheurla?
An uairsin, bhitheadh d’ oidhirpean a’ cosnadh
cliù is aithneachaidh, ’s do leabhraichean
a’ gabhail ’n àite air an sgeilp ri taobh

Dickens, Thackeray is Tennyson.
B’ urrainn dhut brosnachadh is sùgh a tharraing
à dualchas aig nach eil seis anns an t-saoghal
leis cho beartmhor, iol-chruthach ’s a tha e.”

Ach nuair a thòisich mi a’ sgrìobhadh, rinn mi
mar nuair a roghnaich mi a’ chèil’ a th’ agam,
cha b’ ann airson a beairteis no a h-inbhe
ach a chionn ’s gu robh i taitneadh rium

is mise rithe, chionn ’s gum b’ urrainn dhomh
a sàsachadh ’s a dèanamh torrach, chionn
’s nach robh mi ’g iarraidh tachairt ris a’ bhàs
le làimh eile ’nam làimh seach a làmh fhèin.

Of course there are traces of English in my Gaelic,
like the footsteps of the murderer
left in the room in which they found a corpse.
He was indifferent regarding the police,

investigations, them hunting him down,
seeing his crime was consummate and perfect.
And yet there is one snag in the affair:
the corpse was not dead, and is capable

of moving and of walking. Speaking too.
Little by little it transpires that she
appropriated all the murderer's wealth
which, on her lips and in her actions,

is different, deformed and alien.
And when she appears as a witness in court,
fluent and eloquent, the rascal
can't understand a word that she is saying.

*

This language is like a woman possessed
by such an inordinate longing to have a child,
to feel the seed thickening
deep inside of her, and once the cruel

toil and all the pain of birth was past
(which frightened her, too, but not so much
as to succeed in discouraging her)
to enjoy the softness and fragrance of her infant

however clamorous its crying, its complaints,
her nipples getting tight and rigid with
abundance of milk to give it nourishment -
that her impatience reached a level

where she wasn't fussy about the father,
what family he came from, even his name -
and picked on me. The children we two had
were healthy, plentiful and also fine-looking.

*
“It's such a pity you don't write in English!
If that were the case, your work could gain
fame and recognition, and your books
could take their places along the same shelf

as Dickens, Thackeray and Tennyson.
You could get encouragement and sustenance
from a tradition unmatched in the world,
seeing it's so rich and multiform.”

The thing is, when I started writing, I
made the same choice as when choosing my wife,
not because of riches or of status
but because I was attracted to her,

and she to me, because I knew I could
satisfy her and make her fruitful, and
because I didn't want to encounter death
holding any other hand but hers.