Dear to me
by Rody Gorman
Here’s my Sweeney’s wee grave-mound,
His memory pains my heart,
Every place the holy fool used be,
For love of him, is dear to me.
Dear to me Glenbalkan’s fair grassland
As Sweeney loved it compos mentis,
Dear to me every stream that comes out of it,
Dear to me its green-topped watercress.
The well of Tobernagalt over by,
The one whose food its cress was is beloved,
Dear to me its clear sand,
Dear to me its water so pure.
It fell on me to prepare him and it,
I longed to see him and it,
He asked to be taken to my house,
Dear to me was the lying-in-wait.
Dear to me every stream, however cold,
On which the green watercress used be
And every well with its water so bright
Sweeney used haunt.
If the King of Heaven should permit,
Get up and go with me,
Give me, dear heart, your hand
From the wee resting-place.
I loved to talk with Sweeney,
I’ll bear his memory in my heart a long time,
I beseech the King of Heaven
Over his grave and memorial cairn.
| Extract from forthcoming Sweeney: an intertonguing by Rody Gorman | |
|---|---|
Rody Gorman’s Sweeney, An Intertonguing is published this spring by Francis Boutle Publishers. The work is multilingual version of Buile Shuibhne, in English, Irish, Scottish and Manx Gaelic with lingua gadelica, phonemic pieces and round-trip translations. Pre-publication reactions to the work have been full of praise, with words such as ‘extraordinary’, ‘masterpiece’ and ‘magnificent’ used by more than one eminent commentator. Ed. | |
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| Dear to me | Poem by Rody Gorman |
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