Il Bosco e i Varchi

Tu ti va incontra al doman co la léngua đe jeri, no stà bađar le ṣlenguaẑone đe incόi, a le femenete che le cava le piantine đa la léngua đei bòce par semenar garnèi ẑènẑa đolor - đal bosch se inpara pura co la boca, al basta mastegar na foja, o ‘n ramet, par saver l’àrbol e ‘l tènp che ‘l lo mof –, no stà assar crésser nte i lavri al fenìscol a cuèrđer ògne paròla salvàrega, tu savarà nò sol de le rađis e đe le ponte, ma anca đe ‘n troi par al bosch che no ‘l vol farse trađur.

No sò se me perđarò, viẑa mea, quan alti i to faghèr!, no se pol véđer gnanca na s’cianta đe cel, e che ođor bòn de vita đeversa!, vae revès par scansar le vartore, a mi te voe tuta atorno, a missiarme al sangue, a méter i pas a l’anda đel cor, e la voẑe ingalivađa al fià đe foje, al tremar đe unbrìe, la mènt qua no la se confonde, la sa đe ‘n logo điṣest Parađiṣe, là ghe n’è na fontana ndove i bef i oṣèi strachi romài đe la đornađa, nte i so òci l’è tut al sol che no veđe.

Ciare cussì le matine đe agost: al vènt al ṣgorla ẑime indormenẑađe i valon i par lame đe bombaṣo al bosch al se impinẑa đe cant a còro le se cuẑa le unbrìe fin a stuṣarse là su le va e vien s’ciapađe đe ṣbir squaṣi i volesse pontar ṣbrach de nèole, l’è pròpio questa l’ora muneṣina đe perđerse đrìo i orivi đe le viẑe ndove le ṣlùṣega le franbolère, tut descolẑ par i troi del Maẑarόl fa ‘n bocia che l’à ocet de panegassa a ẑupar đa ògne foja la guaẑ de vita.

Woods and

Clearings

You head towards tomorrow with the language of yesterday. Don’t listen to the slanderers of today, the women rooting out seedlings from children’s tongues to sow there painless grains. The forest is a teacher to the mouth, you need only taste a twig, a leaf, to know the tree and the time which moves it –, don’t let the moss grow between your lips, burying every last wild word; then you will know about roots and fronds, and about a lost path through the woods that won’t yield to translation.

I don’t know, forest mine, if I will lose my way, how tall are your beech trees! Not a scrap of sky can I see, how nice the scent of mingled life! I walk the wrong way, elude the clearings, I want you to be all around me, stirring my blood, tuning my steps to the heart’s rhythm, my voice to the leaves’ breath, the shivering shadows. The mind will not go astray here, it knows of a place called Paradise; there I’ll find a spring where birds go seeking water, weary of the day. All the sun I cannot see is in their eyes.

Such are clear August mornings: the wind shakes sleeping fronds, the glens resemble ponds of cotton-wool, a choir of calls illuminates the woods, the shadows crouch and slowly fade; above, flocks of swallows come and go as if trying to stitch up tears in the clouds. This tender hour is the time to go astray at the edges of woods where raspberry bushes glimmer, barefoot along the paths of fairies, like a sparrow-eyed child sucking from each leaf the dew of life.

An Dochtúir Áthas

Dr. Happy

Liam Mac Cóil Translated by Oisín Thomas Morrin

- Inniu. Breathnaímis ar phictiúr. Tírdhreach.

Chuala mé clic sa dorchadas. Chuala mé comhla sa bhos thíos uaim ag sleamhnú isteach agus ansin ag preabadh amach arís. Léim pictiúr lán de dhathanna éagsúla – buí, oráiste agus dearg – suas ar an tsíleáil. Ní fhéadfainn é a dhéanamh amach.

- Cuirfidh mé é sin i bhfócas duit anois.

D'éirigh an pictiúr níos cruinne go mór agus paistí áille bánghlasa agus iliomad línte tanaí dúghorma ag lúbarnaíl trí dhathanna ómra, agus paistí beaga ilghnéitheacha eile - glas, bándearg, corcra, dubh, liath - chomh maith le línte beaga gléineacha dearga trasna na línte beaga gorma.

- Rorschach de mo chuid féin é seo. Bhuel ní liomsa é dáiríre. 'Paranóia' atá air. Is le healaíontóir Dúitseach é. Emil Van Roon. Tá mé an-bhródúil as. Anois, inis dom cad a fheiceann tú ann.

Lig mé liom féin oiread na fríde, agus tharla rud aisteach. Bhí sé mar a bheinn ar ais arís sa ghairdín sin a raibh mé ann agus mé ag léamh an scéil úd in Comhar os cionn seachtaine roimhe sin. Mhothaigh mé an t-aiteas céanna orm arís, iarracht den ghliondar agus den sceon. Ansin mhothaigh mé ciontach, damnaithe, aonarach, ar bhealach gránna. Ba bheag nár aithin mé an tinneas a bhí orm.

- Ha, arsa Áthas, feiceann tú rud éigin ann.

Shíl mé gur cheart dom cur síos a dhéanamh ar a bhfaca mé. Ba sheo é an saol, agus bhí mé ag breathnú aníos air ó tholg an amhrais.

- Today. Let’s look at a picture. A landscape.

I heard a click in the darkness. I heard a shutter being slid across and bouncing back again. A kaleidoscope of colour – yellow, oranges and red –jumped out onto the ceiling. I couldn’t make it out.

- I will put it into focus for you now.

The image became much clearer; pretty pale-green patches and a multitude of thin navy lines wriggled between shades of amber, and other small patches – greens, pinks, purples, blacks and greys – along with small bright red lines that crossed over the thin blue ones.

- A Rorschach painting of my own. Well, it’s not really mine. It’s called “Paranoia”. It is by a Dutch artist by the name of Emil Van Roon. I’m very proud of it. Now, tell me what you see.

I relaxed myself, and something strange happened. It was as if I was in the garden again reading that story in Comhar over a week ago. I felt the same happiness again, the sense of joy and the satisfaction I had. Then, I felt guilty, damned, alone, in an awful way. I came close to recognising the illness I had.

- Ha, said Áthas, you see something.

I thought I should describe what I saw. For life was a play and I was now looking down on it from the gallery of suspicion.

- Feicim, a dúirt mé go trialach, go bhfuil an saol seo briste suas ina phaistí, ina chodanna éagsúla, is d'fhéadfá a rá go bhfuil a dhath féin ar gach paiste, agus a chruth is a dhéanamh féin. Is tá na paistí gormghlasa ann ar nós uisce a Meánmhara maidin earraigh, is tá na paistí maotha ómra mar a bheadh coilearnach beithe tráthnóna fómhair. Agus tá oiread sin paistí idir gach paiste gur dócha go bhféadfá a rá nach gairdín atá ann ach cathair - cathair ghríobháin. Ach go samhlaítear dom anois nach sráideanna atá idir na paistí ach srutháin, canálacha domhaine dúghorma. Feictear dom gurb í seo cathair na Veinéise. Seo iad dathanna San Marco. Agus feicim droichid bheaga dearga anseo is ansiúd thar na canálacha sa chaoi is gur féidir leat dul áit ar bith is maith leat sa chathair seo.

- An-deas. Molaim do shamhlaíocht. Canálacha agus droichid. Cá dtéann na droichid sin?

...

- Droichid shóisialta iad. Úsáideann daoine iad. Is ar an gcaoi sin a dhéanann paiste amháin teagmháil le paiste eile. Agus is bealaí sóisialta eile iad na canálacha. Ach ní teagmháil dhíreach í; ar na canálacha. Agus tá na canálacha ar fad ceangailte le chéile. Ach ní mar sin do na droichid. Bíonn na droichid ceangailte le paistí daite. Agus is aisteach an chaoi gurb iad na rudaí a scarann na paistí ó chéile, gurb iad sin na rudaí a chuireann i dteagmháil lena chéile iad.

- I see, I said warily, that this life is broken up into patches, in their various parts, and you could say that each one has its own colour and shape as it deems itself. And the pale-green patches are like the water of the Mediterranean on a spring morning, and the amber ones like a birch grove on an autumn afternoon. And the multitude of patches between them… it’s more like they are a city, no, a maze. But now it seems to me that there aren’t roads between the patches, but instead streams: navy-blue deep streams. It looks like the City of Venice. It’s the colours of San Marco. And I see little red bridges here and there over the canals in a way that allows you to go wherever you want in this chair.

- Very interesting… What an interesting interpretation. Canals and bridges. Where do these bridges go?

…

- These are bridges that link society. The people use them. It’s in this way that one patch can connect with another patch. And the canals are another means. But they’re not a direct means – the canals, I mean. And the canals are all interconnected; but, it’s not so with the bridges. The bridges are connected by the coloured patches. And isn’t it strange how the things that divide the patches from each other are the things that bring them together.