Blackjack Book

Blackjack
Editura Singur
Singur Publishing - 2016
pg. 2
Blackjack
Volum colectiv de poezie
irlandez contemporan
Contemporary Irish poetry
collective volume
pg. 3
Revista Itaca Dublin

Itaca Magazine Dublin
Coordinators
Dorina iu
Viorel Ploeteanu
Editura Singur Romnia

Singur Publishing
2016
pg. 4
Tehnoredactare / Techno drafting by Dorina iu

Corectura Viorel Ploeteanu
Published in 2016 by
Itaca Magazine Dublin, Ireland
Website: www.itaca.ie
Email: revistaitacadublin@gmail.com
Copyright The Authors, Ireland, 2016

Coperta i ilustraia crii de Sorin Anca (Germania)
The cover and illustrator of this book by Sorin Anca (Germany)
ISBN
821.111(415)-1=135.1=111
Printed in Romania by Singur Publishing

Coordinators
Dorina iu
Viorel Ploeteanu
pg. 5
Contents
Authors Blackjack
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
16.
17.
18.
19.
20.
pg. 6
Afric McGlinchey
Alan Patrick Traynor
Billy Ramsell
Breda Wall Ryan
Christine Murray
Damian Smyth
David Butler
Dean James Browne
Edward ODwyer
Eileen Sheehan
Eleanor Hooker
Eugene OConnell
John W. Sexton
Leeanne Quinn
Maeve O'Sullivan
Mary O'Donnell
Nessa O'Mahony
Noel Duffy
Paul Casey
Roisin Kelly
Dorim s mulumim tuturor celor care, printr-o cinstit munc

de voluntariat, au fcut ca acest proiect s prind via, ncepnd
cu cei 20 de poei irlandezi, continund cu cei 7 traductori i
ncheind cu artistul plastic, ilustratorul acestui volum, Sorin
Anca.
I-ar fi fost mult mai dificil s vad lumina tiparului, dac nu ar fi
beneficiat de suportul financiar al Organizaiei PNL Irlanda, prin
intermediul lui Teo Ciuta.
Preuim cum se cuvine sprijinul Editurii Singur n realizarea i
promovarea acestui proiect, mulumindu-le celor dou suflete
mari, Gabriela iplea i tefan Doru Dncu.
Acest produs literar s-a realizat din suflet pentru suflete, aadar
nu se va comercializa. Cu acordul autorilor, va fi oferit gratis (n
limita tirajului), iar ediia electronic va putea fi accesat gratuit
online.
Revista Itaca, Dublin
pg. 7
We wish to thank all those who, through an honest volunteer

work, have made this project come to life, starting with the 20
Irish poets, continuing with the 7 translators and ending with the
artist, illustrator of this book, Sorin Anca.
I would have been more difficult to see the light of day, if it had
not benefited from the financial support of the Organization PNL
Ireland, through Teo Ciuta.
Cherish properly support the achievement Singur Publishing and
promoting this project, thanking the two great souls, Gabriela
iplea and tefan Doru Dncu.
This product was developed in literary soul to soul, therefore it

will not sell. With the consent of the authors, it will be offered for
free (limited edition), and the electronic edition can be accessed
free of charge online.
Itaca Magazine, Dublin
pg. 8
pg. 9
Afric McGlinchey
traducerea de / translation by: dr.
Isabel Lazr
Afric McGlinchey is an award-winning Irish poet with strong African

connections, as she spent her childhood and early adulthood in Zambia,
Zimbabwe and South Africa. Her dbut poetry collection, The lucky star
of hidden things, was published by Salmon Poetry in 2012. An Italian
translation of her collection was published by LArcolaio. Her second
collection, Ghost of the Fisher Cat, was launched at the Cork
International Poetry Festival in 2016. She has been selected as one of
Irelands Rising Poets by Poetry Ireland Review.
Afric McGlinchey este o poet irlandez, ctigtoare de premii, cu
legturi puternice cu Africa, din moment ce i-a petrecut copilria i
primii ani de maturitate n Zambia, Zimbabwe i Africa de Sud. Colecia
sa de poezii de debut, The lucky star of hidden things, a fost publicat de
Salmon Poetry n 2012. O traducere n italian a coleciei sale a fost
publicat de LArcolaio. Cea de-a doua colecie a sa, Ghost of the Fisher
Cat, a fost lansat la festivalul internaional de poezie de la Cork n
2016. A fost aleas ca fiind unul dintre poeii n plin ascensiune de
ctre Poetry Ireland Review.
pg. 10
Afric McGlinchey translation by: dr. Isabel Lazr

Throwing dice
Myrtle swears shes over him
but stands on the roof most nights.
I hiss to workmen fixing the manhole
in Georges Street
and they look up, see her red dress
fluttering down.
One takes a flying leap, is beside her,
holding hands and crooning.
I swear shes all licorice and wafer,
playing silk and throwing dice.
Yeah I know, a fairy tale,
and pigs can fly.
But whos to say
it wont turn out that way?
Aruncnd zaruri
Myrtle jur c i-a trecut de el
dar st pe acoperi n majoritatea nopilor.
Ssi ctre muncitorii care fixeaz canalele
n Georges Street
i ei se uit n sus, vd rochia ei roie
fluturnd n jos.
Unul face o sritur n aer, este alturi de ea,
innd-o de mn i fredonnd.
Jur c este toat lemn dulce i anafur,
jucndu-se de-a mtasea i aruncnd zaruri.
Da, tiu, o poveste,
iar porcii pot s zboare.
Dar cine poate spune
c nu va fi aa?
pg. 11

Porterhouse Central on Saturday Night
I drew sketches of you in my notebook.
You asked me a million, and I just smiled.
Now I regret it.
But Ive always been a gambler.
So, in case you check out Craigslist,
yes, I do laugh at the parts in movies
no one else thinks is funny.
And I still make wishes on dandelions.
I don't like Brussels sprouts, spinach, or asparagus.
I'd rather go to a sports match than watch it on TV.
I suck jellybeans until they dissolve in my mouth;
all but the grape flavored ones.
I enjoy carnivals and amusement parks,
and though Im terrified of heights,
I always go on the rollercoaster.
I play a mean Blackjack, and cook
some pretty amazing food.
I'm not perfect by any means,
but I love without judgment or restriction.
I realize this is way too bold
and I'm sure itll thicken the atmosphere
rather than break the ice.
You said no worries when I told you I wasnt free,
but in the words of Fergie,
You got me trippin, you got me stumblin
Ive been painting your portrait
for my exhibition at the Doorway Gallery,
opening next week.
Will you come, and later,
maybe go for drinks?
pg. 12

Porterhouse Central smbt noapte
Fac schie cu tine n caietul meu.
M-ai ntrebat de un million de ori i eu am zmbit numai.
Acum regret.
Dar mereu am fost o juctoare.
Aadar, dac verifici Craigslist,
da, rd la secvenele din filme
pe care nimeni altcineva nu le consider amuzante.
i nc mi pun dorine la ppdii.
Nu-mi plac varza de Bruxelles, spanacul sau sparanghelul.
M-a duce s vd un meci sportiv dect s-l urmresc la televizor.
Sug jeleuri pn se dizolv n gura mea;
Toate, mai puin cele cu arom de struguri.
mi plac carnavalurile i parcurile de distracii,
i dei mi este groaz de nlimi,
mereu m urc n montagne russe.
M joc un Blackjack meschin i gtesc
mncare cu adevrat uimitoare.
Nu sunt perfect sub nicio form,
dar iubesc fr nicio raiune sau restricie.
mi dau seama c este mult prea ndrzne
dar sunt sigur c va complica atmosfera
dect s sparg gheaa.
Ai zis c nu e nicio problem cnd i-am spus c nu sunt disponibil,
dar conform spuselor lui Fergie,
M-ai pus pe jar, m-ai ncurcat
i-am pictat portretul
Pentru expoziia mea de la galeria Doorway,
care se deschide sptmna viitoare.
Vei veni i poate mai trziu
mergem s bem ceva?
pg. 13

Blackjack
In every dream at night, I walk out of here,
through the marshes, over the hills,
until I reach Torres Novas then I wake up
to face the daily stench of fear, whirlpools of blood
in the arena, that battalion of red flags.
They say you taste blood when you get speared.
And only mosquitoes loiter to applaud
your cart
over the muddy Guadalquivr.
What the hells the point?
Im just a freak-show to these vultures,
and Ill say this: there wont be a mass pilgrimage
to the frozen relics of bulls!
All Ive got to look forward to is this stampede towards
a slow and painful death; so why not gamble for my freedom?
They say you should aim for the navel, spike the guts
and gore until you see the matador
bubble black saliva, like caviar.
Then head for where peace shimmers,
far down the open road.
pg. 14

Blackjack
n fiecare vis noaptea, plec de aici,
prin mlatini, peste dealuri,
pn ajung la Torres Novas cnd m trezesc
pentru a m izbi de duhoarea zilnic de fric, vrtejul de snge
din aren, acel batalion de steaguri roii.
Se spune c ai gust de snge cnd eti tras n suli.
i numai narii tndlesc s aplaude
jocul tu de cri cart
peste noroiosul Guadalquivr.
Care este naibii sensul?
Sunt numai un spectacol cu ciudenii pentru aceti vulturi,
i o voi spune: nu va fi un pelerinaj n mas
la acele relicve ngheate de tauri!
Singurul lucru pe care l atept cu nerbdare este aceast groaz ctre
o moarte nceat i dureroas; astfel de ce s nu joc pentru libertatea
mea?
Se spune c trebuie s inteti buricul, s inteti maele
s strpungi pn l vezi pe matador
c vars saliv neagr, precum caviarul.
Apoi s te ndrepi ctre locul n care pacea licrete,
n deprtare, pe drumul deschis.
pg. 15
Alan Patrick
Traynor
traducerea de /
translation by: Maria
Liana Chibacu
Alan Patrick Traynor is a

Poet from Dublin Ireland. He
is the author of SEVEN DAYS OF ASHES, a poetry book written on the
spirit of the Holocaust.
It has been said that his poetry is the mystical galvanic paint that sets
the fields of Provence on fire.
Traynors poetry shocks the eyes and soul at once, his poems are 'deep
veridicous spears in a rachis sky of black feathers that will unlatch and
unhinge you.'
Alan Patrick Traynor has been featured in Literary Journals worldwide,
and is greatly respected amongst his peers.
'Edit not my Soul' and 'Edit not Blood' are two of his own phrases that
describe him best.
Alan Patrick Traynor este un poet din Dublin, Irlanda. Este autorul a
apte zile de cenu, o carte de poezie scris n spiritul Holocaustului.
S-a spus c poezia lui este o imagine galvanic, mistic, care vizeaz
cmpurile unei Provence n flcri.
Poezia lui Traynor ocheaz ochii i sufletul. Poemele lui sunt autentice
lnci nfipte n cerul de pene negre, care te vor sfia i te vor tulbura
profund.
Alan Patrick Traynor a fost n revistele literare la nivel mondial i este
foarte respectat printre colegii si de breasl.
Edit not my Soul (Nu-mi schimbai sufletul) i Edit not blood (Nu
modificai sngele) sunt dou din frazele care l definesc cel mai bine.
pg. 16
Alan Patrick Traynor translation by: dr. Maria Liana Chibacu

Soldier, you are dead
I wrote to love
of thinning bulbs I read
the fire within
cheekbones
of thinning bulbs I read
buried in the garden of the innocent
I wrote to love
it's where she sits
amid the white tulip chairs
demanding winter
as it comes
demand the winter
and, it will come
thine deadly dead twist hard thine deadly
dead
no ivory thoughts remembered
softly every thought that ever wounds her
stand into
the wounds
oh, the fire within the cherubim chairs
it's hands within her wounds
as do the garden of my thoughts
you cannot bury
pg. 17

it's where she sits
amid the white tulip falcon felloe
of the fiery dead
Sept. 28th 2014
Eti mort, soldatule
i scriu s ndrgeti
bulbii fragili, ntrezresc
fierbineala
oaselor tale percep
fragilitatea bulbilor
ngropai n grdina inocenei
i-am zis s-i plac
acolo st ea
aezat pe un tron de lalele albe
aluzia unei ierni
aa cum se arat
cernd iernii s vin
i va veni
flmnd de mort
cu moartea ta hrnindu-se
fr amintirea confuz a unui gnd
fr blnda atingere a unui gnd dureros
zcnd
pg. 18

scufundat n suferina rnilor
oh, flcrile ce ard tronul heruvimului
ghearele lor despuind rnile ei
nu poi ngropa
aa cum grdina gndurilor mele
e acolo unde ea se lfie
printre lalele n compania corbului
i a focului ce ucide.
pg. 19

Pain(t)
behind the painting
she awaits
the midnight terracotta
pain
Dec. 8th 2014
Tort(ura)
Sub stratul de var
pndete
cazna nocturn
a crmizii
Nor Behan's shadow there

The ocean has no east, but
to the waves of widows calling
the old one throws her shawl
and if the moon had her eyes
they would speak
the black slate flesh of Moher
neither hurl nor Behan's shadow there
would haunt
oh child, that orange hood
it has no place
nor the sun
pg. 20

be the riveting sea unfolds the bracken
those are the delicate bones
oh of, olde now older Ireland
Connemara the bloodened feet of Christ
once walked us home
down into the Burren's droning hold
of tall slate
widow's moan
that hammers nails
into the hammered waves
21 th August 2014
Nici urm de Behan aici

Oceanul fr zbucium
doar valurile vduvelor care cheam
pe cele mai vrstnice s-i sloboad broboada
Dac luna ar avea ochi
s-ar vorbi
de carnea de ardezie a stncilor Moher
Nici vuietul nici umbra lui Behan
nu bntuie,
oh, copile, bolt portocalie
fiindc nu-i afl locul
nici soare
nu e pe nepenita mare ce i dezvluie feriga valurilor
pg. 21

acelea sunt oasele plpnde
oh, of, a btrnei antice Irland
Connemara picioarele sngernde ale lui Cristos
cndva ne arta drumul spre cas
mai n jos nspre vuietul nepenit din Burren
pe semeiile de ardezie
vaietul vduvelor
nfige cuie
n valurile izbite de ciocan
Behan poet renumit n Irlanda

Moher rm nalt i spectaculos din vestul Irlandei
Connemara un district legendar din vestul Irlandei, renumit pentru
frumuseea peisajelor
Burren Parc naional n districtul Clare, caracterizat printr-o
ntindere de valuri de piatr, lefuite de vreme i vremuri.
pg. 22
Billy
Ramsell
traducerea de /
translation by:
Margento
Billy Ramsell was born in Cork in 1977 and educated at the North
Monastery and UCC. He has published two collections with Dedalus
Press, Complicated Pleasures in 2007 and The Architects Dream of
Winter in 2013, which was shortlisted for the Irish Times Poetry Now
Award. He was awarded the Chair of Ireland Bursary for 2013 and the
Poetry Ireland Residency Bursary for 2015. He has been invited to read
his work at many festivals and literary events around the world. He
lives in Cork where he co-runs an educational publishing company.
Billy Ramsell s-a nscut n Cork n 1977 i a studiat la North
Monastery i la UCC. A publicat dou volume de versuri la editura
Dedalus, Complicated Pleasures n 2007 i The Architects Dream of
Winter n 2013, ultima nominalizat la premiul Times New Poetry
Award. Printre distinciile primite se numr Chair of Ireland Bursary
pe anul 2013 i Poetry Ireland Residency Bursary pe 2015. Locuiete n
Cork unde face parte din conducerea unei edituri specializate n carte
colar.
pg. 23
Billy Ramsell translation by: Margento

Cortex
No gridded city this,
no endless sectioned field of light, all sodium rectangles,
no planned place youre descending slowly toward.
This light-scape simply formed itself:
its messy centre splashed there in medieval happenstance,
partitioned by what churning channel,
its north sides gullied uplands, its flat south plain.
But this town will be you
and your desires will pulse
in never-stinting traffic through its veins,
through the capillaried local routes,
through the broad dual-carriageways that span its bounds
and meet in ravelled interchanges,
in junctions not even your own mother could unpick.
Strange how from up here its all some bright machine.
Yet this is where your memories will live:
city block after city block, flicking on and off
in unpredictable rolling black outs, awaiting your descent.
You know I can only go with you so far.
And youre nearly landed now, nearly down among the pathways
that swell and contract as the light pushes through them.
It reaches up toward you from those streets or trenches,
rising and receding, aryhthmically, a breathing mist.
Youre not afraid. You know what youve come here to do.
So are you prepared now my darling?
Are you ready to disperse yourself, unravel,
to shower like snow upon these systems,
to melt and meld
deep into each luminous neighbourhood
near where weve come down
at what might be your own absolute centre,
into those far-off flaring hills? Youre not asleep.
pg. 24

Cortex
Nu-i un grtar acest ora,
nu nesfrit cmp secionat de lumin, tot numai ptrate de sodiu,
nu loc proiectat spre care s cobori ncet.
Acest peisaj de lumin pur i simplu s-a autoformat:
centrul su vraite trntit acolo ntr-o-ntmplare medieval,
despicat de nu-tiu-care canal nvolburat,
la nord cu stnci brzdate de ploi, cu cmpia-ntins la sud.
Dar acest ora vei fi tu nsi,
iar dorinele tale vor pulsa
n traficul nentrerupt din vene,
pe rutele locale capilarizate,
de-a lungul largilor artere cu dou benzi ce-o strbat pn-n margini
i se-ntlnesc n nclcite jonciuni,
n noduri rutiere pe care nici propria-i mam nu le poate desclci.
Ciudat cum de-aici de sus totul pare-o eclatant mainrie.
i totui aici i vor locui amintirile:
cvartal dup cvartal... se-aprind, se sting,
n imprevizibile pene de curent ce se mut de la unul la altul,
ateptndu-i venirea.
tii c doar pn-aici te pot nsoi.
Iar acum eti aproape de aterizare, aproape jos printre acele alei
ce se umfl i contract n timp ce lumina le strpunge.
Se ridic spre tine de pe strzi i din rigole,
nlndu-se i retrgndu-se, aritmic, o cea respirnd.
Nu i-e deloc team. tii ce-ai venit s faci aici.
Eti, aadar, pregtit, draga mea?
Eti gata de dispersie, gata s te deiri,
s te aterni ca zpada peste aceste sisteme,
pg. 25

s te topeti, s te-mpmnteneti
adnc n cartierele-astea luminoase
aproape de unde-am cobort
spre ceea ce-ar putea fi centrul tu absolut,
pe-acele dealuri semeindu-se n deprtare? Nu, asta nu i se-ntmpl n
somn.
pg. 26

After Image
Surface to air, the swallows take flight
from the wind-frisked eye of the lake.
You breathe them further out of its sight
with every breath that you take.
Will they skim through the gaps in the peregrine wind?
No, they are flying to Bandon
where all the old and slate-grey breezes end.
No, they are flying to Shandon.
Dup imagine
Din luciu n aer nesc rndunici
de pe-a lacului tremurat retin.
Din vz n vzduh le nali i le duci
de cte ori rsuflarea-i revine.
Vor pluti prin lacune de vnt peregrin?
Nu, cci zboar spre Bandon
unde btrnele-adieri de-ardezie se sting.
Nu, cci zboar spre Shandon.
pg. 27

The Click
You know that sweet sharp note. The ping of straight and true
connection between opposites thats born of trial and patience:
when the stubborn lock gives, or the lid of the jar engages
in a longed-for, suddenly-effortless mating of tongue in groove,
the even click-track in the joggers ceratoid pulsing out time
as he enters a measured and breathless dream, that singing click
when the sliotar meets the maker-gifted sweet point of the stick,
or when a word, unbidden, spies its partner and asks it to rhyme.
It must be measured, cant be rushed, will only be begged for in vain:
think of that Friday night back bar with its fiddling and nicotine
tangible,
of how her drifting balm something like cinnamon, like sandalwood,
made your very veins accelerate as into your beer-sweetened ken
it snapped like a solution that she would always be your lover
when she glanced up the first time from her tumbler of gold,
looked you up and down from her barstool and savagely stalled,
and grinned, before beckoning you with her lean arms to come over.
pg. 28

ac!
tii acel dulce diez. Fidel, corectprin clinchet
contact ntre contrarii prin ncercri i rbdare:
cnd o broasc-a naibii cedeaz, ori un capac coboar
n ateptata, brusc lejera-mperechere c-un filet,
repere egale de-alergtor p-ecran pulsndu-i viteze
spre visul cronometrat, fr suflu, acel melodios ac!
al mingii lovind binecuvntatul vrf de tac,
sau un cuvnt nechemat, iscodind, cernd altuia s-i rimeze.
Msur trebuie, nu grab, cci altfel implori degeaba,
ca-n vinerea-n crma lutrind prin palpabila nicotin
cnd scorioar, santal... abureau-ncet ctre tine
dinspre ea... brusc nvlindu-i n vene i-n grab
neuronii prin bere-au dat de soluiape via-i a mea...
n timp ce ea de-abia-i ridic ochii din paharul de aur,
te msoar, tot amnnd, de la ea de pe scaun,
i rnjind, iat-i face semn s vii lng ea.
pg. 29
Breda Wall
Ryan
traducerea de / translation
by: Elena Daniela Radu
Breda Wall Ryan From rural

Co. Waterford, she now lives in
Co. Wicklow. She holds a B.A. in
English and Spanish (NUI); a Post-graduate Diploma in Teaching
English as a Second or Other Language (Trinity College, London) and
M.Phil. in Creative Writing (Distinction) (Trinity College, Dublin).
Her fiction appears in The Stinging Fly, The Faber Book of Best New Irish
Short Stories 2006-7 and The New Hennessy Book of Irish Fiction and was
shortlisted for The Davy Byrnes Award, Francis MacManus Short Story
Award, Hennessy Literary Award, UCD Anthology Award and Elizabeth
Bowen/William Trevor Award.
Widely published in on-line and print journals including Ink Sweat and
Tears, Deep Water Literary Journal, The Ofi Press, Orbis, Magma, The
Rialto and Poetry Ireland Review, her poems have won iYeats Poetry
Competition, Poets Meet Painters, Dromineer Poetry Competition and
Over the Edge New Writer of the Year. She was selected for Poetry
Ireland Introductions Series, 2014 and The Rising Generation, 2016.
Several times nominated for Pushcart and Forward prizes, she won the
Gregory ODonoghue International Poetry Competition, 2015. In a
Hares Eye (Doire Press 2015) won the Shine/Strong Award for a First
Collection by an Irish Poet. Nature, dream, memory and myth inspire
her.
Breda Wall Ryan provine din Comitatul rural denumit Waterford, iar
acum locuiete n Comitatul Wicklow. A absolvit Universitatea
Naional Irlandez, specializarea englez-spaniol, deine Diplom
Postdoctoral cu Distincie n Predarea limbii engleze, a doua limb
pg. 30
Breda Wall Ryan translation by: Elena Daniela Radu

sau limb strin, obinut la Trinity College din Londra i Doctoratul
n Filologie cu specializarea n Scriere Creativ, obinut la Trinity
College din Dublin.
Lucrrile sale de ficiune apar n publicaiile: The Stinging Fly, The Faber
Book of Best New Irish Short Stories 2006-7 i The New Hennessy Book of
Irish Fiction, iar poeta a fost niminalizat pentru Premiul Davy Byrnes,
Premiul Francis MacManus Short Story, Premiul Hennessy Literary,
Premiul UCD Anthology i Premiile Elizabeth Bowen/William Trevor.
Poemele ei, publicate amplu n jurnale tiprite i pe internet, inclusiv n
Ink Sweat and Tears, Deep Water Literary Journal, The Ofi Press, Orbis,
Magma, The Rialto i Poetry Ireland Review, au ctigat premiile
concursurilor iYeats Poetry Competition, Poets Meet Painters, Dromineer
Poetry Competition i Over the Edge New Writer of the Year. Lucrrile
sale literare au fost selecionate pentru Poetry Ireland Introductions
Series, 2014 i The Rising Generation, 2016. A fost nominalizat de
cteva ori pentru Premiile Pushcart and Forward i a ctigat
Competiia Internaional de Poezie Gregory ODonoghue n 2015.
Volumul su n ochiul iepurelui de cmp, publicat la Editura Doire Press
n 2015, a primit Premiul Shine/Strong pentru Prima Colecie de Poezie
a unui Poet Irlandez. Motivele sale de inspiraie sunt: natura, visul,
amintirile i mitologia.
pg. 31

If what is, is other
(After Pablo Neruda, The Book of Questions)
Is it the taint of cracked milk on marble?
A cats mangy caress on an ankle?
I have tasted the clean rustle of barley straw
where the crows fetor soaks
the fertile earth.
Unless its a slip of velvet lining a pocket?
A beach pebble set in a 24 carat platinum ring?
I have felt a cellos strings move air in my brain,
tasted in half-light its fumes like single malt,
the last drops.
Could it be that first formless shriek of a newborn?
The trembling of wind in a cave of singing ice?
I have touched the seas breath among mountain pine,
heard clover dying in the silence
of wild bees.
Perhaps it is the thud of a frozen goldcrest striking the ground?
A pilot whales vertebrae on a cottage lawn?
I have tasted spring rain in a fistful of ripe corn,
felt a nocturne in a dark wood,
the deepest shade.
Or is it the fizz between the idea and its orbit?
A nerves flash like lightning splitting a bone?
I have breathed enigmas, seen cryptic echoes leap
the steep cliffs of the skull.
I understand nothing.
pg. 32

S fie oare aceasta sau cealalt?
(Dup Pablo Neruda, Cartea ntrebrilor)
S fie oare urmele lsate de laptele cel mai bun pe marmur?
Dezmierdarea unei pisici rioase pe glezn?
Am gustat fonetul pur al paielor de orz
unde duhoarea ciorilor nmoaie
pmntul fertil.
Sau poate este o fie din catifea la tivul buzunarului?
O pietricic de pe plaj, montat ntr-un inel din platin de 24 de
carate?
Am simit coarda unui violoncel punnd n micare aerul din creierul
meu,
i-am gustat n semi-obscur aburii, ca pe un mal unic,
ultimele picturi.
Sau ar putea fi primul scncet inform al unui nou-nscut?
Vibraiile vntului ntr-o peter de ghea muzical?
Am atins suflul mrii printre pinii de pe munte,
am auzit trifoiul pierind n linitea
albinelor slbatice.
Probabil este bufnitura unui auel cu capul galben ngheat, cnd a
czut pe pmnt?
Vertebra unei balene-pilot pe pajitea unei csue?
Am gustat ploaia de pimvar ntr-un pumn de porumb copt,
am simit o nocturn ntr-o pdure ntunecat,
cele mai adnci umbre.
Sau poate este reacia spumoas dintre idee i orbita ei?
Strlucirea de fulger a unui nerv care spintec osul?
Am respirat mistere, am vzut ecoul codificat care sare
peste stncile abrupte ale craniului.
Nu neleg nimic.
pg. 33

The Inkling
(To the last Neolithic farm woman of Cide Fields)
That first time it breathed a sigh on your neck,
why did you brush it aside?
You should have taken it into your head.
There was still time to build it a shrine,
offer crowberry prayers and top-of-the-milk.
White breath hung over the cattle-pens.
You carried on felling and burning,
spread baskets of kelp and sand on the land.
The inkling shivered your spine.
Did it come from the ocean?
It lurked in the mizzle, blackened the haws,
wormed down to your worrybone.
Years have gone by. The cradles lie empty.
Summer is wetter than winter. Rain
drenches the land. It quenches the sky.
Your slen breaks the earths skin,
you drive the blade deep with your foot.
Bogwater wells from the wound.
Grass lies down in the fields and drowns,
cattle bawl their hunger pains.
There is only one child in the house.
You cant shake the inkling,
it niggles, raises the back of your hair,
sly and fat as a tick.
pg. 34

Barley decays in the ground.
The cow is near dry. You must choose
between calf and child.
It is out of your hands.
pg. 35

Bnuiala
(Poem dedicat ultimei fermiere care a trit n Cide Fields, n
neolitic)
Prima dat cnd i-a rsuflat cu un oftat pe ceaf,
de ce ai ndeprtat-o cu mna?
Ar fi trebuit s i intre bine n cap.
Mai aveai timp s construieti un altar,
s oferi rugciuni rsuntoare i smntn.
Rsuflarea alb plutete peste staulul vitelor.
Ai continuat s tai lemne i s le arzi,
din couri mprtii varec i nisip pe pmnt.
Simi fiorii de bnuial pe ira spinrii.
A venit din ocean?
Te pndea prin burni, nnegrea boabele de mcee,
se strecura ca un vierme pn n mduva ideilor tale.
Anii au trecut. Leagnele copiilor au rmas goale.
Vara este mai ploioas dect iarna. Pmntul
mustete de ap. Cerul i potolete setea.
Ai crpat scoara pmntului cu hrleul,
apsnd lama cu piciorul n adncul arinei.
Berea Bogwater nete din ran ca dintr-o fntn.
Iarba zace pe cmp i se neac,
se aude mugetul de foame al vitelor.
n cas este un singur copil.
Nu poi scpa de bnuial,
te scie, i ridic prul de pe ceaf,
viclean i umflat ca o cpu.
pg. 36

Orzul putrezete n pmnt.
Vacii i-a secat aproape tot laptele. Trebuie s alegi
ntre viel i copil.
Nu ai de ales.
pg. 37

Woman of the Atlantic Seaboard
You might meet her anywhere on the coast:
at Moher she is Rosmari, she walks the high cliffs
away from the busses and tour guides,
her face turned towards the west, sea in her hair;
or at Renvyle where a white carved stone
remembers the unbaptised, as Maighdean Mara,
she keeps vigil where the sea stole
their bones from the shore.
Call her Atlantia, she who waits in the lee
of the sea wall at Vigo for the boats to come in.
She looks deep into fishermens eyes,
as if eyes can give back what theyve seen,
a waterlogged husband, brothers shin bone,
a sons lobster-trap ribcage to carry home
in a pocket of her yellow oilskin.
Enough for a burial.
She is Marinella on Cabo Espichel, Morwenna
in Wales. Among wild women who comb
blueberry barrens in Maine she is Maris,
her fingers long as the seas ninth wave,
stained from plucking sharp fruit in sea fog.
Find her on shore where Connemara ponies
ride out the surf. Take her home,
give her the strangers place at the hearth:
she wont stay. Inland, she adds salt to her bath,
boils potatoes in seawater down to a salt crust.
Feed her dilisk and Carrigeen moss; she cant help
but return to the waves, to kelp and ozone.
She is Muirghein, born of the sea, the sea
salts her blood. Or call her Thalassa, mother
of Kelpies, Selkies, fin-flippered sea-mammals,
pg. 38

neoprene-skinned fish-hunters, creatures of the tide.
All lost to her. Oceania the seafarers daughter,
sister, mother, wife; on a widows walk in Boston,
scanning the horizon for a floater or a boat.
Meet her on the brink of the ocean, alone, winter
seas in her eyes. Call her by any of her names:
she will turn from you, to the blue norwester,
shake brined beads from her hair. She will wait
for her drownlings forever, standing in the salt rain.
pg. 39

Femeia care st pe coasta oceanului Atlantic
Ai ansa s o ntlneti oriunde pe coast:
la Moher, cu numele de Rosmari, plimbndu-se pe vrfurile de stnc,
departe de larma autobuzelor i ghizilor de turism,
cu faa nspre apus, cu marea n plete;
sau la Renvyle unde o stnc alb cioplit
i amintete de cei nebotezai i, precum sirena,
vegheaz nentrerupt unde marea le-a furat
osemintele de pe mal.
Numete-o Atlantia, pe acea care ateapt n bordul de sub vnt,
lng zidul dinspre mare, n portul Vigo, vapoarele care acosteaz.
Ea citete privirile pescarilor cu atenie,
ca i cnd ochii ar putea aduce napoi imaginile vzute,
un so necat de ape, tibia fratelui,
cursa pentru homari a unui fiu, pe care ea s o ia acas
n buzunarul pelerinei ei galben.
Suficiente pentru nmormntare.
Ea este Marinella din Cabo Espichel, Morwenna
n ara Galilor. Dintre femeile rzlee care adun
afine n Maine, ea este Maris,
cu degetele lungi precum valul care mtur vapoarele,
ptate de la culesul fructelor dintre epi, n ceaa mrii.
O gseti pe malul unde caii de Connemara
alearg mai repede dect valurile. Invit-o la tine acas,
i ofer-i locul de lng vatr, cel mai bun, pentru oaspei:
ea va refuza. Pe uscat, ea pune sare n baie,
fierbe cartofi n ap de mare, pn cnd prind o crust de sare.
Hrnete-o cu alge Dulse i muchi irlandez; atunci nu se va putea
reine
s nu se ntoarc n valuri, la varec i ozon.
Ea este Muirghein, nscut din mare, marea
i sreaz sngele. Sau mai bine numete-o Thalassa, mama
pg. 40

spiritelor apelor, mamifere marine cu nottoare,
mnui din neopren pentru pescari, creaturi ale mareei.
I-a pierdut pe toi. Oceania, fiica marinarului,
sora, mama, soia; ntr-un foior n Boston,
scrutnd orizontul s zreasc vreun bac sau vapor.
ntlnete-o la malul oceanului, singur, iarna
cu marea n priviri. Strig-o, rostindu-i toate numele:
ea se va ntoarce cu spatele dinspre tine nspre albastru, nspre nordvest,
i va scutura boabele srate din pr. Ea i va atepta
mereu pe cei dragi necai, stnd n ploaia srat.
pg. 41
Christine Murray
traducerea de / translation by:
Elena Daniela Radu
Christine Murray is an Irish born

poet and writer, a graduate of Art
History and English Literature (UCD)
and a City and Guilds qualified restoration stonecutter (OPW/
Commissioners of Public Works in Ireland). Her poetry is published in
the The Southword Journal, Cranng Magazine, A New Ulster Magazine,
Caper Literary Journal, Ditch Poetry, Bone Orchard Poetry, Levure
littraire, Recours au Pome Magazine, and WomenArts Quarterly
Journal.
Her chapbook Three Red Things was published by Smithereens Press
in June 2013. A collection of poems Cycles was published by Lapwing
Press in Autumn 2013. A dark tale The Blind was published by Oneiros
Books late in 2013. Her second book length poem She was published in
Spring 2014 (Oneiros Books). A chapbook Signature was published in
March 2014 by Bone Orchard Press.
Christine Murray este poet i scriitoare de origine irlandez,
absolvent a Facultii de Istorie a Artei i Literatur Englez de la
University College Dublin i este pietrar specializat n restaurri,
educat la City and Guilds (OPW/Commissioners of Public Works in
Ireland). Poeziile sale apar n publicaiile: The Southword Journal,
Cranng Magazine, A New Ulster Magazine, Caper Literary Journal, Ditch
Poetry, Bone Orchard Poetry, Levure littraire, Recours au Pome
Magazine i WomenArts Quarterly Journal.
Volumul su de literatur popular intitulat Trei obiecte roii a fost
publicat la Editura Smithereens Press n iunie 2013. Colecia sa de
pg. 42
Christine Murray translation by: Elena Daniela Radu

poeme intitulat Serii, a fost publicat la Editura Lapwing Press n
toamna anului 2013. Povestirea de groaz intitulat Nevztorii a fost
publicat la Editura Oneiros Books la sfritul anului 2013. Al doilea
volum, care conine un singur poem intitulat Ea, a fost publicat la
Editura Oneiros Books n primvara anului 2014. Volumul su de
literatur popular, intitulat Semntura, a fost publicat la Editura Bone
Orchard Press n martie 2014.
pg. 43

Delicate
We trace our path from the harbour to
A dark stepped lane opened out onto
The old churchyard. Green and blue
Sea glass, a rough blush pink is clearlit.
We find small rib bones scattered there.
I pick up the cap of a skull. Small, its
Sponge ossified to a mineralized honeycomb.
I cup its yellow cream in my hand. Delicate,
A sea snail, most precious egg, as if
It had touched the ruby feather of a
Bluebird. A most precious thing,
Bird-egg-shattered, dust in my pores.
We place the bones down on a portico shelf,
Are they human bones, those of an infant?
We lay them under the wing of a sheltering grave,
A small bone heap. We move through the labyrinth.
pg. 44

Delicat
Mergem pe crarea dinspre port
i o lum pe aleea care se lrgete i d nspre
Vechiul cimitir. O mare de sticl
Verde i albastr, o mbujorare rozalie i aspr luminat n plin.
Acolo, dm peste nite coaste mprtiate.
Iau n mn partea de sus a unui craniu. Mic, precum
Un burete osificat i transformat ntr-un fagure de miere mineralizat.
Cuprind n palm spuma glbuie. Delicat,
Precum un melc marin, un ou nepreuit, care pare
S fi atins pana rubinie a unei
Mierle albastre. Un lucru fr de asemnare,
sfrmat ca o coaj de ou, pulverizat n porii mei.
Punem osemintele pe un portic orizontal,
Sunt oseminte umane, ale unui copil, cumva?
Le aezm sub aripa unui mormnt care s le adposteasc,
o grmjoar de oscioare. Ne strecurm prin labirint.
pg. 45

Descent From Croagh Patrick
Remember the placing of each and every stone
Remember the bone white light of each one
Beneath the bones of your feet
Remember the queer light they cast for your dream.
He knocks the stones together to get out the green
Remember with your feet as you descend that
Theres gold in the mountain and that the stones
Skim circular on the bed of the streamHe knocks the stones together to get out the green.
Remember the placing of each and every stone
Remember the bone white light of each one
Beneath the bones of your feet
Remember the queer light they cast for your dream.
pg. 46

Coborrea de pe Croagh Patrick, Muntele Sfntului Patrick
S nu uii locul fiecrei pietre n parte,
S nu uii lumina alb precum oasele fiecreia dintre ele,
Aflate sub oasele tlpilor tale,
S nu uii lumina neobinuit pe care ele o reflect pentru visul tu.
El arunc pietrele la un loc pentru a smulge verdele din ele.
S nu uii senzaia din tlpi atunci cnd cobori,
Pe care i-o dau muntele plin de aur i pietrele
Care strecoar apa din albia rului, stnd n cerc El arunc pietrele la un loc pentru a smulge verdele din ele.
S nu uii locul fiecrei pietre n parte,
S nu uii lumina alb precum oasele fiecreia dintre ele
Aflat sub oasele tlpilor tale,
S nu uii lumina neobinuit pe care ele o reflect pentru visele tale.
pg. 47

pretty, useless things
A summer's evening, its grey raining.
The flames of five candles are dancing gay.
As counterpoint, your little lamp is straining
her low glow across the space between us.
You give me pretty useless things
these symbols of light,
a golden bowl figured in silver round
red-glazed, a red not in nature found
Nimicuri drgue
E o sear de var, plou i e cenuiu.
Flcrile celor cinci lumnri danseaz vesele.
Parc pentru a echilibra lucrurile, lmpia ta se zbate
s acopere cu strlucirea ei, spaiul dintre noi.
mi druieti nimicuri drgue,
simboluri ale luminii,
un bol auriu ncrustat cu argintiu, rotund,
smluit cu rou, un rou care nu exist n natur
pg. 48
Damian Smith
Mdlina Dncu
"Damian Smyths five collections

focus on a handful of streets in his
home town of Downpatrick in the
north-east of Ireland, where he was
born in 1962.
His first collection, Downpatrick Races (Lagan Press), appeared in
2000. A stage play, Soldiers of the Queen, played the Belfast Festival at
Queens in 2002 and was published the following year. His second
collection, The Down Recorder an epic poem drawing on news stories
in the local newspaper over 150 years appeared in 2004. Both
Lamentations, a sequence of 70 brief elegies, and Market Street,
appeared in 2010. A poetry pamphlet, Apparitions: A Hurricane
appeared from Templar in 2013 and his fifth full collection,
Mesopotamia, was published by the same publisher in May 2014. A
sixth collection, English Street, will appear in 2017.
Anthologies in which his work is represented include The New North
(Winston-Salem, Wake Forest University Press, 2008), The Watchful
Heart (Galway, Salmon Publishing, 2009), The Ulster Anthology
(Belfast, Blackstaff Press, 2006), The Blackbirds Nest (Belfast,
Blackstaff Press/QUB, 2006) and in Pleiades, Volume 35, Number 2,
Summer 2014. Happily, there is a longer and even more impressive list
of anthologies in which his work is not represented."
Cele cinci colecii ale lui Damian Smyth se concentreaz pe cteva
dintre strzile din oraul lui natal, Downpatrick, n nord-estul Irlandei,
unde a fost nscut n 1962.
pg. 49
Damian Smith translation by: Mdlina Dncu

Prima dintre coleciile lui, Downpatrick Races (Cursele din
Downpatrick) (Lagan Press/ Editura Lagan), a aprut n 2000. O pies
de teatru, Soldiers of the Queen (Soldai ai Reginei), a fost jucat la
Festivalul Belfast al Universitii Queens n 2002 i publicat n anul
urmtor. Cea de-a doua colecie a autorului, The Down Recorder (un
poem epic bazat pe poveti de tiri din ziarul local, ntinzndu-se pe
150 de ani) a aprut n 2004. Att Lamentations (o nirare de 70 de
elegii scurte), ct i Market Street au aprut n 2010. Un pamflet de
poezie, Apparitions: A Hurricane a aprut la Templar n 2013 i cea
de-a cincea colecie complet, Mesopotamia, a fost publicat de ctre
aceeai editur n mai 2014. O a asea colecie, English Street, va
aprea n 2017.
Antologii n care opera lui Smyth a fost reprezentat include The New
North (Winston-Salem, Editura Wake Forest University Press, 2008),
The Watchful Heart (Galway, Editura Salmon Publishing, 2009), The
Ulster Anthology (Belfast, Editura Blackstaff Press, 2006), The
Blackbirds Nest (Belfast, editurile Blackstaff Press/QUB, 2006) i
Pleiades, Volumul 35, Numrul 2, vara lui 2014. Din fericire, exist o
list mai lung i chiar mai impresionant de antologii n care opera lui
nu este reprezentat.
pg. 50
A Death in Killough
In the early morning after death there are birds shouting,
the two or three already in the fields and at work before light,
corncrake and heron crane: those anchorites, the solitaries,
themselves like washing snagged on the hedges, something seen and
heard
and out of the ordinary, something fresh and new-born like souls.
This is how it is a known fact there are signs and wonders around
death,
encounters in the half-light, however far the urban runs its cables
along the old routes and across them, it has new varieties of half-light
dragging behind it and with them their familiar disturbances:
the tremendous figure crouched by the chimney tops screaming,
or the throaty uncanny concussion even at the high-rise windowsill
new magic, old comfort, a stable and recurring alarm.
And it is exactly shouting, for these have no homes to go to,
the drunks of the lough, its odd dowdy sons at their waywardness.
Who else is first on the scene when the body washes ashore,
as if they have been waiting for this all night under the police capes
of their own big shoulders, their stooped gait noting the remains?
It is good to be out here with them at this hour after death.
They are by nature sad and by character stoic and straight
and when they call out on the cold air, it is another species replies.
pg. 51
O moarte n Killough
n dimineaa devreme de dup moarte strig psri,
cele dou sau trei deja n cmpuri i la munc naintea luminii,
cristeiul i cocostrcul: aceti sihatri, solitarii,
ei nii precum cioturi splate pe gardurile vii, ceva auzit sau vzut
i neobinuit, ceva curat i nou-nscut ca sufletul.
Aa ca un fapt cunoscut sunt semne i minuni n jurul morii,
ntlniri neprevzute n semiobscuritate, orict de departe i ntinde
urbanul cablurile
de-a lungul vechilor ci i peste ele, are noi varieti de semiobscuritate
trt dup el i cu ele, tulburrile lor familiare:
figura formidabil ghemuit lng courile caselor, strignd,
sau izbitura gutural, stranie chiar i pe pervazul zgrie-norilor magie nou, comfort vechi, o constant i periodic alarm.
i strig anume pentru cei care nu au un acas de mers,
beivii lagunei, cu fiii ei neobinuii i ciudai la apogeul nestatorniciei
lor.
Cine altcineva e primul la locul faptei cnd cadavrul e aruncat pe rm,
ca i cum ar fi ateptat asta toat noaptea sub pelerinele poliiste
ale umerilor lor mari, a cror inut ncovoiat observ rmiele?
E bin s fii afar cu ei la ora aceasta de dup moarte.
Ei sunt din fire triti i prin caracter stoici i drepi
i cnd cheam n aerul rece, e rspunsul altei specii.
pg. 52

Beaux Arts
What they discover out there on the edge
of the sands, amid the armed marram grass,
sea-campion, bird's-foot and spent cartridge,
in the earth's disorder, sea's gravitas
(its many white eyes) is that nothing sees;
the anonymous fauna too concerned
with their own delight to be witnesses.
So deaths come and go in their ungoverned
but relentless way, unhappy, unwatched
by the elements; as Icarus dropped
from the frightening blue, having just hatched
from the suns nest and fallen, wet wings clipped,
already a veteran of the sky;
who might himself be that boy in fatigues
who, being washed ashore, was pulled by
strangers up the beach by his slim legs.
pg. 53

Beaux Arts1
Asta descoper ei acolo la hotarul nisipurilor,
n mijlocul ierbii de nisip narmate,
cavalerul mrii2, floarea de seradel i cartuul uzat
n dezordinea pmntului i solemnitatea mrii
(cu mulii ei ochi albi) descoper c nimic nu vegheaz;
fauna anonim mult prea prins
n a lor proprie desftare s mai fie martori.
Aa vin morile i pleac apoi n a lor necontenit
dar implacabil cale, nefericit, neobservat
de elemente: precum s-a prbuit Icar
din cumplitul albastru, i-a czut cu aripile ude tiate
abia ieit din goacea cuibului de soare,
deja veteran al cerului;
ar fi putut fi chiar el acel biat n hain de soldat
care, purtat pe rm, a fost scos de strini
pe plaj, trgndu-l de picioarele-i subiri.
1
Arte frumoase (din fr.)
2
Silene uniflora, numit popular i Sea champion, e o plant
care crete n mod normal n zonele de coast ale Marii Britanii, n
special pe falez i stnc.
pg. 54

The Wind Among the Reeds
The wild bird my father kept in his bedroom
was a clarinet, its breathy call heard
in the afternoons over the diaphragm of oilcloth,
its one lacquered wing spreading over the town.
A bird of paradise in black and white,
the peacock tail of the sheet music flapping on the long neck
the perfect silver vertebrae engaging
his strange pride in the Band of the Irish Guards,
a rebel heart thrilling to The Minstrel Boy
going up like a flock of geese from a barrack square
in Whitehall, Cheltenham or Pondicherry,
musicians drilling every note like marksmen.
But the soldiers who came to take his son away
left the old man wheezing at his door
and the coffin of the instrument upstairs
never to yield its skeleton again.
pg. 55

Vntul n ppuri
Pasrea slbatic pe care o inea tatl meu n dormitor
era un clarinet, chemarea-i aspr auzit
serile peste diafragma linoleumului,
aripa ei lcuit ntinzndu-se peste ora.
O pasre a paradisului n alb-negru,
coada de pun a partiturii flfind pe gtul lung
vertebrele perfect argintii captivnd
mndria lui stranie n trupa Grzilor Irlandeze,
o inim rebel nfiorndu-se la auzul Biatului Menestrel 3
urcnd ca un crd de gte dintr-un teren de manevr al cazrmii
din Whitehall, Cheltenham sau Pondicherry,
muzicieni manevrnd fiecare not precum pucaii.
Dar soldaii care au venit s-i ia fiul
l-au lsat pe btrn suflnd greu n ua casei
i cociugul instrumentului de la etaj
nu-i va mai fi predat vreodat scheletul.
3
The Ministrel Boy e un cntec patriotic irlandez care a
crescut n popularitate n timpul Rzboiului Civil din America i n
special n timpul Primului Rzboi Mondial.
pg. 56
David
Butler
traducerea de
/ translation
by: Mihaela
Ioni
A former lecturer in English and Spanish literature, David Butler

works as a full time writer. His debut poetry collection, Via Crucis, was
published by Doghouse in 2011, while his most recent novel, 'City of
Dis' (New Island, 2014) was shortlisted for the Kerry Group Irish Novel
of the Year, 2015. Other literary prizes include the Maria Edgeworth
and Fish International Awards for the short story, the SCDA and Cork
Arts Theatre awards for drama, and the File Filochta and Brendan
Kennelly awards for poetry. He lives in Bray.
Un fost Lector n Literatura Englez i Spaniol, David Butler lucreaz
n prezent ca scriitor cu norm ntreag. Prima sa colecie de poezii,
"Via Crucis", a fost publicat de editura Doghouse n 2011, n timp ce
romanul su cel mai recent "City of Dis"(Oraul Zicerii), New Island
2014, a fost nominalizat de ctre Kerry Group pentru romanul anului
2015.
Alte premii literare includ Maria Edgeworth i premiul Fish
Internaional pentru nuvel, premiile SCDA i Cork Arts Theatre pentru
dram i de asemenea premiile Feile Filiqchta i Brendan Kennelly
pentru poezie. Locuiete n Bray.
pg. 57
David Butler translation by: Mihaela Ioni

Wasp
leaves its paper-lantern nest,
a painted samurai.
September has filled it
with the jitters.
When it crawls the globe
of a pitted wind-fall
wings fidget
to right its stumbling.
Its antennae are
nerve ends.
A humour
of the grey air
has maddened the venom
inside its doublejointed abdomen:
black-bile;
yellow-bile.
It can sense the end.
Now it turns
kamikaze:
launching
into one last
delirious flight
it is
fanatic,
frenetic,
simply dying
to fall upon the sword.
pg. 58

Viespe
i prsete cuibul felinar de hrtie,
Un samurai pictat.
Septembrie a umplut-o
Cu nervozitatea.
Cnd se trte pe globul
Unui vnt de toamn nensemnat
Aripi se foiesc
Ctre dreapta stngciei sale.
Antenele sale sunt
Terminaii nervoase.
Un umor
Al aerului gri
A nebunit veninul
nluntrul abdomenului
Dublu articulat.
Bila-neagr;
Bila-galben.
Se simte sfritul.
Acum devine
Kamikaze:
Lansarea
ntr-un ultim
Zbor delirant
Este
fanatic
Frenetic,
Murind de nerbdare
S cad peste sabie.
pg. 59

And then the sun broke through
A sea of jade and muscatel; the sky, gun-metal.
Landward, the storm-portending birds, white-lit,
Riding wild contours of wind, uplift
To tilt at the raucous crows. This
Is how it is to live, the ticker tells,
Looping the floor of the newsfeed.
Somewhere, an outrage; an airstrike;
Somewhere, a politic withdrawal. This
Is how it is to live: the wind blowing
The charcoal of crows feathers;
The rent in the clouds; oblique tines beating
Sudden ochre out of a sullen ocean.
i apoi soarele a ptruns printre
O mare de jad i muscat; cerul, plumburiu.
Dincoace, psrile prevestitoare de furtun, alb-strlucitor,
Stpnind formele slbatice ale vntului, nlare
Pentru a calma ciorile rguite. Aa
Trebuie s trieti, spune ceasul,
Corelnd irul noutilor.
Undeva, o ofens; o fulgerare;
Undeva, o retragere politic. Aa
Trebuie s trieti; vntul suflnd
Griul penelor ciorilor;
Ruptur n nori; colii oblici btnd
Deodat ocru dintr-un ocean nchis.
pg. 60

Rithn an Chloig, Bray
All day a louring sky has squatted
low on the slate-grey horizon.
Under its sullen light, the sea
is beaten metal, tarnished, unannealed,
sending slow scallops landward.
The brae is in winter livery:
bare furze, tree-fern and bracken.
Ive climbed to this silence again.
The waves of hundreds of years have broken
since Bray last heard a bell here
inside this open ruin, roofless,
mute as a cleft palate,
from which faith, a lost language,
has long since flown.
Rithn an Chloig, Bray
ntreaga zi un cer ntunecat s-a ghemuit
Jos pe orizontul gri-ardezie.
Sub lumina sa nchis, marea
Este metal uzat, tern, nerevenit,
Trimind scoicile fr via la mal.
Dealul este deghizat n iarn;
Rchita goal, copacul-ferig i feriga.
M-am crat pe aceast linite din nou.
Valurile sutelor de ani s-au rupt
De cnd Bray a auzit un clopot aici
nluntrul acestei ruini deschise, descoperite,
Tcut ca un palat despicat,
De unde credina, o limb pierdut,
Demult a zburat.
pg. 61
Dean James
Browne
traducerea de /
translation by: dr. Isabel
Lazr
Dean Browne was born in London. He won the 2011 Cuisle National
Poetry Competition as a secondary student, and his poems have
appeared in The SHOp, Poetry (Chicago), Southword, Cranng, and
elsewhere. He was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2015, and read in
the Introductions Series for the Cork International Poetry Festival,
2016. He lives in Cork where he is a postgraduate student at UCC.
Dean Browne s-a nscut la Londra. n 2011, a ctigat Competiia

Naional de Poezie Cuisle, situndu-se pe locul al II-lea la seciunea
studeni. Poeziile sale au aprut n The SHOp, Poetry (Chicago),
Southword, Cranng, precum i n alte publicaii. n 2015, a fost
nominalizat pentru Premiul Pushcart. n 2016, poeziile sale au fost
citite n Seciunile Introductive ale Festivalului Internaional de Poezie
de la Cork. Locuiete la Cork, unde a absolvit studii postuniversitare la
UCC.
pg. 62
Dean James Browne translation by: dr. Isabel Lazr

Polypheme
He remembers the telescope most on winter nights,
a cheapish starter model this, but it let him go
to Mare Imbrium and back in minutes;
then hes that nine-year-old who wheels it to the window,
dusts it off, and finds this keyhole in the hemisphere.
Sometimes the lens reflects his own myopic squints,
trained on whatever might chance to constellate
especially for his look the soft blur
of the Pleiades, or Cassiopeia
he liked to picture rocking on a blue verandah;
or that god who, deaf to his charades, hints
nothing of himself and declines to comment
and is nobodys business for the moment
unless he means to say Sorry, youre too late.
Uria
i amintete de telescop cel mai des n nopile de iarn,
un model de nceput, ieftin este acesta, dar i permite s mearg
ctre Mare Imbrium i napoi n cteva minute;
atunci este acel copil de nou ani care se duce pe biciclet la fereastr,
o terge de praf i gsete aceast gaur de cheie n emisfer.
Uneori lentilele reflect propriul su strabism miopic,
antrenat asupra oricrei schimbri de acoperire cu stele
n special pentru privirea sa pcla moale
a constelaiei Pleiadele, sau Cassiopeia
i plcea s se imagineze legnndu-se pe o verand albastr;
sau acel zeu care, surd la aradele sale, nu sugereaz
nimic despre el nsui i refuz s comenteze
i nu este treaba nimnui pentru moment
numai dac el vrea s spun mi pare ru, ai venit prea trziu.
pg. 63

Tabernacle
Castaways, we hit the forest our camping stove
turned low, I gripped my tent close for its trial
in virgin attitudes of stiffness while
lamps fluttered on the dark. It sank in wave
on wave accordion-like, the only sin
we knew; and soon the Jameson appeared.
Id burned one back and by the third
she laid her hand on mine, like a napkin
Later, I caught those tiny gasps from Joan
and Michaels tent where he slipped into her
like (this I thought) a frog a la Bash;
those dark rippling walls where she kept centre,
held her breath, so I had to puzzle how
one could leave and neither be alone.
Tabernacol
Izgonii, ne ndreptm spre pdure plita noastr de campare
s-a rcit, mi strng cortul aproape pentru ncercarea sa grea
n atitudini virgine de rigiditate n timp ce
lmpile se tulbur n ntuneric. S-a scufundat n val
dup val precum un acordeon, singurul pcat
pe care l tim; i curnd Jameson a aprut.
Am ars una pe spate i la cea de-a treia
ea i-a pus mna pe a mea, precum un erveel...
Mai trziu, am prins acele gemete sczute din cortul Joanei
i al lui Michael n care el s-a furiat n ea
precum (aa m-am gndit eu) o broasc a la Bash;4
acei perei ntunecoi i ondulai unde se concentra,
i-a inut respiraia, astfel c am pus n ncurctur cum
poate cineva s plece i niciunul s nu fie singur.
4
Aluzie la poezia Broasca a poetului japonez Matsuo Bash (1644-1694). Matsuo Bash
este considerat ca fiind cel mai mare poet haiku, creaiile sale fiind cunoscute n
ntreaga lume (n. tr.).
pg. 64

The Words
On Samuel Becketts page in the Great
Book of Ireland
It seems that from your quiet plot,
gin-clear, a voice maintains;
what struggles for expression past
four strikings-out, your final scrawl
and what the language means,
is nothing: a kind of simple
genius touch, a gallows knot
thats rendered in this home-not-home
to silence, lint, occasion, dust.
We will repeat your Au contraire:
unmist the glass; turn back the tape;
restart the heart until your stroke
cleanly reveals from studies deep
as yours, one item more
that loosens to the shape we like:
the fledgling and the failing hands
still better in their failure,
moving through pure silence
where now Belacqua who atones
unbothered on his ledge,
or even the skinheaded
modern of Autolycus, may,
no matter how refined or raw,
still demonstrate noblesse oblige
while clutching the shortest straw.
You almost want to say, Be dead,
lie back down in your bones.
pg. 65

Cuvintele
Pe pagina lui Samuel Beckett n Marea Carte a Irlandei 5
Se pare c din intriga ta linitit,
se menine o voce clar precum ginul;
ceea ce se lupt pentru trecutul de expresie
patru rebuturi, mzgleala ta final
i ceea ce limbajul nseamn,
este nimic: un soi de
atingere de geniu simpl, un nod de spnzurtoare
care este interpretat n aceast cas care nu e acas
pentru a tcea, scam, ocazie, praf.
Vom repeta Au contraire al tu:
cur sticla; deruleaz banda;
repornete inima pn cnd atacul tu
se dezvluie clar din adncul studiilor
ca fiind al tu, un element n plus
care se slbete ctre forma care ne place:
minile de pasre tnr i care dau gre
nc mai bune n eecul lor,
micndu-se prin linite pur
unde acum Belacqua care ispete
nestingherit pe tpanul su,
sau chiar i cel ras n cap
versiunea modern a lui Autolycus, ar putea,
indiferent de ct de rafinat sau crud,
nc s demonstreze c noblesse oblige
n timp ce apuc cel mai scurt pai.
Mai c vrei s spui, Fii mort,
ntinde-te pe spate n oasele tale.
5
Marea Carte a Irlandei, o galerie i o antologie de art i poezie modern

irlandez, este un proiect care a nceput n 1989. Cartea a fost publicat n
1991 iar n 2013 a fost achiziionat de Universitatea din Cork (n. tr.).
pg. 66
Edward
ODwyer
Edward O'Dwyer (b. 1984) is

from Limerick City, Ireland.
His poems have been published in journals and anthologies throughout
the world, including The Forward Book of Poetry (2015). His work has
been shortlisted for a Hennessy Award and the Desmond O'Grady Prize,
among others, and been nominated for Forward, Pushcart and Best of
the Web Prizes. In 2010, he participated in Poetry Ireland's
Introductions Series, and edited the anthology Sextet for Revival Press,
the follow-up to which is due in winter, 2016. In 2012 he represented
Ireland at Poesiefestival, Berlin, for their European 'renshi' project. In
2014, Salmon Poetry published his first full collection, The Rain on
Cruise's Street, the follow-up to which is due in spring 2017. His
national school, Scoil Ide, celebrating their 50th anniversary in 2015,
honoured him by committing his poem, 'Poem for Someone of No
Particular Importance', to a plaque, which was unveiled and is
displayed in the school's outdoor classroom. Also in 2015, artist Carmel
Doherty interpreted his poem, 'Texting God', for a collaborative
writer/artist exhibition at Ennis Book Festival. He is on the committee
of Cuisle Limerick City International Poetry Festival.
Edward O'Dwyer s-a nscut n oraul Limerick din Irlanda. Poeziile
sale au fost publicate n reviste i antologii din ntreaga lume, cum ar
fi, The Forward Book of Poetry n 2015. Opera sa a fost propus pentru
obinerea Premiilor Hennessy i Desmond O'Grady, printre altele, i a
fost nominalizat la Premiile Forward, Pushcart and Best of the Web. n
2010, poetul a participat la Seria introductiv de poezie irlandez i a
pg. 67
Edward O'Dwyer translation by: Elena Daniela Radu

editat antologia intitulat Sextet pentru Editura Revival Press,
continuarea fiind programat n iarna anului 2016. n 2012 poetul
Edward O'Dwyer a reprezentat Irlanda la Poesiefestival n Berlin, cu
proiectul european renshi. n 2014, Editura Salmon Poetry i-a publicat
prima colecie complet intitulat Ploaia pe strada lui Cruise,
continuarea urmnd s apar n primvara anului 2017. coala sa
naional, Scoil Ide, a srbtorit 50 de ani de la nfiinare n 2015 i l-a
onorat gravnd o plac pentru poemul su, Poem pentru cineva care nu
este att de deosebit, care a fost dezvelit i expus n holul exterior al
colii. De asemenea, n 2015, artista plastic Carmel Doherty a pictat un
tablou pentru poezia compus de Edward O'Dwyer i intitulat,
Trimind mesaje pe telefon lui Dumnezeu, pentru expoziia de
compoziie scriitor/artist plastic la Festivalul Ennis Book. Poetul este
membru al comitetului de organizare a Festivalului Internaional de
Poezie Cuisle din oraul Limerick.
pg. 68

Filte
Nadine, our four-year-old daughter,
has more Irish than any of them,
but they try out their few words on us,
and mispronounce them.
Were Irish, the family of Yanks tell us.
Oh, we say, and leave it at that.
Filte, Nadine says to the man
in baggy jeans and a massive chequered shirt.
He is definitely a gun owner.
He has the red, whiskery face
of a man who enjoys his dinner that much more
if he has killed it himself.
Filte, her little voice as soft as a pg,
soft as the good rain,
our summer rain.
There is none of our accusatory ways in her,
none of our time-bought cynicism.
Capitalism, Bush, Guantanamo mean nothing to her.
She isnt thinking about the guns this man owns,
the kinds of guns teenagers buy
at WALMART stores before they carry out
a massacre at their high-school.
She says it again, a little louder this time.
Filte, and this time he hears her.
He takes in the word.
He chews the word, and rolls it around
in his neo-imperial mouth, tastes it.
pg. 69

Filte, he says back to her
with a slow, torturous drawl,
stretching the syllables to their breaking point,
like they are his prisoners now,
and they will tell him what they know.
pg. 70

Bine ai venit!
Nadine, fiica noastr de patru ani,
este mai irlandez dect oricare dintre ei,
cei care ncearc s ne spun cteva cuvinte pe care le-au nvat,
dar le rostesc greit.
Suntem irlandezi, ne spune familia de yanchei.
Ooo, rspundem noi, i nu mai adugm nimic.
Bine ai venit! i spune Nadine omului
n blugi largi i cma enorm n carouri.
El poart sigur arm.
Are chipul rou, aprins de whiskey,
al unui om care prefer cina,
pe care a ucis-o chiar el.
Bine ai venit! Vocea ei micu este delicat ca un srut,
mtsoas ca o ploaie plcut,
ploaia noastr de var.
Ea nu nvinovete niciodat pe nimeni ca noi i
nici nu ne motenete cinismul pe care l-am cptat cu timpul.
Nu o intereseaz capitalismul, Bush i nici Guantanamo.
Nu tie de armele de foc ale acestui om,
de armele pe care le cumpr adolescenii de obicei,
de la magazinele WALMART, nainte de a porni
masacrul la liceul lor.
Ea i spune din nou, mai tare de aceast dat,
Bine ai venit! Iar, de aceast dat, el o aude.
El nelege rostul acestor cuvinte.
Le rumeg i le rostogolete
pg. 71

n gura lui neo-imperial, le degust.
Bine ai venit! i rspunde el
cu un trgnat ncet i chinuitor,
prelungind vocalele aproape s le frng,
prnd c le ine prizoniere pe moment,
pentru ca ele s i destinuie tot ce tiu.
pg. 72

Just By Chance
This is the place we have been coming to since,
this is the hour, and yet just by chance
that the stars were out that first night, and their light, just by chance,
glittering on the Shannons lurching surface,
a near-full moon suspended over the centre of Thomond Bridge
just by chance of where we were stood on the quay.
And just by chance it was the most brittle silence
with which we had no words to shatter
did I think to remove my coat and place it over your shoulders,
brushed your neck with my fingers just by chance of how they shook.
Then, surely, it was just by chance of the way of the tide
that a pair of swans came floating out from the bridges far side
towards us, and so I learned that swans mate for life
just by chance youd read it somewhere once, but couldnt remember
where.
As though just by chance you said that did it occur to me then
I may never have a better opportunity
to kiss you than there and then, that average Wednesday
Limerick was the most romantic place ever and just by chance.
And so gently turning you round to face me,
just by chance of the arbitrary direction of a convenient wind
your russet hair all blown back and so, just by chance,
the whole of your beautiful face staring back at me,
we kissed our first kiss in that unlikeliest of ways
sometimes things happen so perfectly and yet just by chance.
pg. 73

Din pur ntmplare
Acesta este locul unde tot venim de atunci,
acesta este, din pur ntmplare, ceasul
n care stelele au rsrit n acea prim noapte, iar lumina lor strlucea,
din pur ntmplare, pe chipul lui Shannon, ascuns n umbr,
o lun aproape-plin, suspendat deasupra mijlocului Podului
Thomond,
unde noi stteam pe chei, din pur ntmplare.
i, tot din pur ntmplare, se aternuse o linite att de fragil,
cum nu avusesem niciodat ocazia s o sfrmm prin cuvinte,
la fel precum m gndisem s mi iau haina i s o pun pe umerii ti,
atingndu-i gtul cu degetele care, tot din pur ntmplare, tot mai
tremurau.
i, era desigur, tot pur ntmplare, cnd fluxul
a ndemnat dou lebede s pluteasc nspre noi, n trecerea lor pe sub
marginea
de dincolo a podului, i astfel am aflat c lebedele i aleg perechea pe
via;
tu ai citit acest lucru undeva, tot din pur ntmplare, dar nu i mai
aminteti unde.
Parc, tot din ntmplare, ai spus c mi-ar fi trecut prin minte atunci
c s-ar putea s nu mai am o ocazie att de bun
s te srut imediat, pe loc, n ziua aceea obinuit de miercuri,
n oraul Limerick, cel mai romantic loc din lume i tot din pur
ntmplare.
i, n timp ce i ntorceai ncet faa nspre mine,
pg. 74

din ntmplare, vntul mi-a venit n ajutor btnd dintr-o direcie
oarecare
i i-a rvit prul pe spate i n toate prile i, din ntmplare,
fiind cu faa ta frumoas ntoars spre mine, m priveai n ochi,
i ne-am srutat pentru prima oar, aa cum nu ne ateptm
s se desfoare lucrurile uneori perfect sau din ntmplare.
pg. 75

The Death of Sean Bean
Stop killing Sean Bean!!!
- Youtube comment on Sean Bean death reel
Today youll go to the cinema,
leave at a loss to explain why
you live in a world where,
even in a movie, Sean Bean always dies.
Like last time, all the heroic promise
insinuated by a few generous,
never overblown moments
snuffed out
to leave you disillusioned,
in a state of existential crisis.
Youll leave the hall
and know once more,
a collective knowing,
silently shared by everyone
filing towards the exits,
that the world doesnt make sense.
That is the import
of Sean Beans scripted death,
make no mistake about that.
Knowing that the world is a place where
the Sean Beans dont live,
not anymore, anyway if ever they did
and knowing that they should,
that the Sean Beans of the world
should always be its future.
On that silver screen of your dreams
he does the impossible
with seeming ease,
the outrageous unthinkable,
the world-with-sense thing,
defies the script at every turn
with his brilliant survival.
pg. 76

There, his pocket edition of Yeats
always stops the bullet
before it kisses flesh,
and you know as the credits play
over Sean Bean
facing such a beautiful sunset
that everything makes sense for it,
all is right with the world;
that the sun will rise again many times;
that the best days are ahead.
pg. 77

Moartea lui Sean Bean
Nu-l mai ucidei pe Sean Bean!!!
- Comentariu aflat pe site-ul Youtube privind irul
de mori al actorului Sean Bean n filme
Astzi mergei la cinema,
i nu reuim s v explicm de ce
trii ntr-o lume n care,
fie numai i n filme, Sean Bean moare ntotdeauna.
Precum data trecut, toate faptele de eroism promise,
sugerate de cteva scene,
antrenante i deloc exagerate,
v dezumfl
i rmnei dezamgii,
ca ntr-o stare de criz existenial.
Ieii din sal
aflnd nc o dat,
precum o cunoatere colectiv,
un acord tcut, tiut de toi
cei care se ndreapt n ir nspre ieire,
c lumea nu are noim.
Aceasta este, fr nici o ndoial,
nsemntatea morilor din scenariile
lui Sean Bean.
tiind c lumea este un loc unde
cei precum Sean Bean nu supravieuiesc,
nu mai supravieuiesc, cel puin dac au supravieuit vreodat
i, mai tiind c ar fi bine
s fie ntotdeauna viitorul ei,
aceti Sean Bean-i ai lumii.
Pe ecranul argintiu al visurilor tale,
el reuete imposibilul,
aparent fr niciun efort,
inimaginabilul extrem,
acela, n care lumea are noim,
sfideaz scenariul la fiecare pas,
pg. 78

salvndu-se genial de fiecare dat.
Acolo, ediia lui de buzunar cu versurile lui Yeats
oprete ntotdeauna gloanele,
nainte de a-i sruta trupul,
i mai tii, n vreme ce se deruleaz genericul
i se suprapune peste chipul lui Sean Bean,
care privete un rsrit minunat,
c toate au noim pe lume;
totul este bine n lume;
soarele va rsri din nou nc multe zile de acum ncolo,
iar cele mai bune zile de-abia de acum ncolo vor urma.
pg. 79
Eileen Sheehan
Oana Lungu
Eileen Sheehan is from

Scartaglin, now living in Killarney,
County Kerry. Her collections are Song of the Midnight Fox and Down
the Sunlit Hall (Doghouse Books). Anthology publications include The
Poetry of Sex (Ed Sophie Hannah/ Penguin/ Viking); The Watchful
Heart: A New Generation of Irish Poets (Ed Joan McBreen/Salmon
Poetry), and TEXT: A Transition Year English Reader (Ed Niall
MacMonagle/ Celtic Press). She has worked as Poet in Residence with
Limerick County Council Arts Office. She is featured on Poetry
International Web's Irish section. Her third collection, The Narrow
Place of Souls, is forthcoming.
Eileen Sheehan este din Scartaglin, iar acum locuiete n Killarney,
Districtul Kerry. Coleciile ei sunt Song of the Midnight Fox (Cntecul
Vulpii Nocturne) i Down the Sunlit Hall (Pe Holul Luminat de Soare)
(Doghouse Books). Publicaiile antologice includ The Poetry of Sex
(Poezia Sexului) (Ed Sophie Hannah/ Penguin/ Viking); The Watchful
Heart: A New Generation of Irish Poets (Inima Neadormit: O Nou
Generaie de Poei Irlandezi) (Ed Joan McBreen/Salmon Poetry), i
TEXT: A Transition Year English Reader (Cititorul Englez al Anului
de Tranziie) (Ed Niall MacMonagle/Celtic Press). A lucrat de
asemenea ca Poet Rezident cu Biroul Consiliului de Art al Districtului
Limerick. Apare n seciunea irlandez a Poetry International Web. A
treia sa colecie, The Narrow Place of Souls (Locul Strmt al
Sufletului), este n curs de apariie.
pg. 80
Eileen Sheehan translation by: Oana Lungu

What the Old Woman Said
I will tell you this. There was a garden by the pump. Fallow land given
me.
My father built flowerbeds. Offshoots of paths. Geometric patterns.
Cuttings. Bulbs from my mother. The texture of earth.
Stone. The smell of water. I could grow anything.
I will tell you this. There was a pond. Wrinkles of mud. Pups that were
drowned there.
Dragged to the bank. Sacksful slit open. Way beyond saving.
Names that I gave them. Returned to the water. Each small splash.
Spirals expanding. My own face rippling.
I will tell you this. There was a Heron. Constant. Returning.
Stilt-leg. Growing above water. Curtain of willows.
Everything still. A crowning of feathers.
Inflections of music. Nothing was moving.
I will tell you this. There were meadows. Light. Nectar from clover.
More flowers than I could name. Armfuls I carried.
Stems that I split. Smelling of summer.
Chains on my neck. Ankles. The bones of my wrists. Knowing nothing.
I will tell you this. There was a boy. Eyes like the sky.
Eyes like my father's. Children imagined. Rooms that were borrowed.
Rooms that were painted. Stories invented.
Histories. Futures. We knew everything.
I will tell you this. There was a man. Veins under skin.
Bones. Barely there. His stuttered breathing.
Green light on a screen. Intermittent beeping.
False light. False music. Someone was dying.
I will tell you this. I had seen his face on the shroud.
Running and bleeding. Wounds on his hands.
Pictures on glass. Coloured and leaded.
pg. 81

Faces on statues. A cross through his heart. Light always fading.
I will tell you this. There was a room. White. A white plate on the table.
A man at the table. Notes in his voice. A tune that I knew.
Beauty in the movements of his face. His arms. Frisson of wings.
Touch. Touch me. But he already had. I had forgotten everything.
I will tell you this. Some days are unbearable. Horizontal planes.
Moment to moment. Each long tick. I have been lonely.
Last night; a dream of a heron. The span of his wings.
Sounding through air. Listen Listen I am disappearing
First published in The Rialto (editor Michael Mackmin). Published on

Poetry International Web. From the collection Song of the Midnight Fox
(Doghouse Books)
pg. 82

Ce a Spus Btrna
O s v spun ceva. Era o grdin lng cimea. Pmnt necultivat mi-a
fost dat.
Tatl meu fcea straturi de flori. Ramificaii de alei. Modele geometrice.
Tieturi. Bulbi de la mama. Textura pmntului.
Pietre. Mireasma apei. Puteam s cultiv orice.
O s v spun ceva. Era un lac mic. Cute de noroi. Acolo erau necai
celuii.
Tri spre mal. Sacii se deschideau. Dincolo de orice scpare.
Le ddeam nume. Dai pe ap. Fiecare mic pleoscit.
Spiralele se ntindeau. Propriul meu chip fcea vlurele.
O s v spun ceva. Era un btlan. Statornic. Se-ntorcea.
Cu picioare lungi. Cretea deasupra apei. Perdele de slcii.
Totul era nemicat. O ncununare de pene.
Inflexiunile muzicii. Nimic nu se mica.
O s v spun ceva. Erau pajiti. Lumin. Nectar din trifoi.
Mai multe flori dect le-a putea spune pe nume. Le cram cu braele
pline.
Desfceam tulpinele. Miroseau a var.
Lanuri la gtul meu. La glezne. La oasele ncheieturilor minilor mele.
Nu tiam nimic.
O s v spun ceva. Era un biat. Cu ochii precum cerul.
Cu ochii precum ai tatei. Copii imaginai. Camere care erau
mprumutate.
Camere care erau vopsite. Poveti inventate.
Istorii. Viitor. Noi tiam totul.
O s v spun ceva. Era un om. Cu vene pe sub piele.
Oase. De-abia dac erau acolo. Cu respiraia tremurat.
Lumin verde pe un ecran. Sunete intermitente.
Lumin fals. Muzic fals. Cineva murea.
pg. 83

O s v spun ceva. I-am vzut chipul pe giulgiu.
Fugind i sngernd. Avea rni la mini.
Picturi pe sticl. Colorat i plumbuit.
Chipuri pe statui. O cruce prin inima lui. Lumina care slbea mereu.
O s v spun ceva. Era o camer. Alb. O farfurie alb pe mas.
Un om la mas. Cu note n voce. O melodie pe care-o tiam.
Avea frumusee n micrile chipului su. Braele sale. Freamt de aripi.
Atinge. Atinge-m. Dar el o fcuse deja. Uitasem tot.
O s v spun ceva. Unele zile sunt insuportabile. Planuri orizontale.
Clip de clip. Fiecare ticit lung. Am fost singur.
Azi-noapte; am visat un btlan. ntinderea aripilor lui.
Se auzeau prin aer. Ascult. Ascult Eu dispar
Publicat pentru prima oar n The Rialto (redactor Michael Mackmin).

Publicat pe Poetry International Web (Pagina Internaional a Poeziei).
Din colecia Cntecul Vulpii Nocturne (Doghouse Books)
pg. 84

his former occupation
before my love
became my love
he was a housebreaker
dressed always in black
moving on the edge of
vision, the edges of gardens,
the narrow spaces between houses
a master of stealth,
of silence, climbing upwards
in search of treasure
occasionally women caught a glimpse of him
at their windows, imagined
they dreamed him, floated for days in
the clear green pool they made of him,
others woke to a musky scent in their rooms
objects displaced on their
bedside tables, trinkets gone missing
once a woman surprised him
as he poked his head above the sill
of her open window, with
a sideways kick from
her high-heeled boot she sent him
sprawling backwards,
downwards into shrubbery: this episode, she kept it
to recount at dinner parties with herself as the
heroine in her own story
and all the while he lay there
unconscious, wild goats came down from the
mountains and ate the grasses that
smothered him, the trees were kind
pg. 85

sending leaves to cover him, snows came and
his skin grew white
later, thats where I found him surrounded
by roses, honeybees exiting his mouth,
he walked home with me and didnt
stop talking as gold spilled from every
pocket in his coat: before my love
became my love, he was a housebreaker
and is not like other men.
First published in Connections (poetry editor Michael Curtis)

From the collection Down The Sunlit Hall (Doghouse Books)
pg. 86

fosta lui ocupaie
nainte ca iubitul meu
s fie iubitul meu
era sprgtor de case
mbrcat mereu n negru
micndu-se aa nct s nu fie
vzut, la marginile grdinilor,
n spaiile-nguste dintre case
maestru-al furiatului
al tcerii, urcnd
n cutarea comorii
ocazional femeile-l zreau
de la ferestrele lor, i imaginau
visau la el, pluteau cu zilele n
lacul verde i limpede pe care-l fceau pentru el,
altele erau trezite de miros de mosc n camerele lor
obiecte mutate din loc pe
noptierele lor, podoabe disprute
odat o femeie l-a surprins
cum i iea capul deasupra pervazului
ferestrei sale deschise, cu
cu o lovitur lateral cu
cizma ei cu toc nalt l-a trimis
rostogolindu-se-ndrt,
jos n tufri: acest episod l-a pstrat
ca s-l spun la dineuri cu ea nsi ca
o eroin-n propria-i poveste
i-n tot timpul ct el zcea acolo
incontient, capre slbatice-au cobort din
muni i-au mncat iarba
care-l sufoca, iar copacii erau amabili
pg. 87

s-i trimit frunze s-l acopere, zpezile-au venit
iar pielea i se fcu alb
mai trziu, l-am gsit acolo-nconjurat
de trandafiri, albine i ieeau din gur,
a mers acas cu mine i nu
nu se oprea din vorbit pe cnd aurul i cdea
din fiecare buzunar al hainei: nainte ca iubitul meu
s fie iubitul meu, era sprgtor de case
i nu-i ca ceilali brbai.
Publicat pentru prima oar n Connections (editor de poezie Michael

Curtis)
Din colecia Pe Holul Luminat de Soare (Doghouse Books)
pg. 88

My Father, Long Dead
My father, long dead,
has become air
Become scent
of pipe smoke, of turf smoke, of resin
Become light
and shade on the river
Become foxglove,
buttercup, tree bark
Become corncrake
lost from the meadow
Become silence,
places of calm
Become badger at dusk,
deer in the thicket
Become grass
on the road to the castle
Become mist
on the turret
Become dark-haired hero in a story
written by a dark-haired child
first published in The Irish Times (poetry editor Gerard Smyth)
pg. 89

Tatl meu, s-a dus demult
tatl meu, s-a dus demult
s-a preschimbat n aer
s-a preschimbat n arom
de fum de pip, de fum de iarb, de rin
s-a preschimbat n lumin
i n umbr peste ru
s-a preschimbat n degeel rou,
n piciorul cocoului, n scoar de copac
s-a preschimbat n cristel de cmp
pierdut de pe pajite
s-a preschimbat n tcere,
n locuri linitite
s-a preschimbat ntr-un bursuc la asfinit,
ntr-o cprioar-n crng
s-a preschimbat n iarba
de pe drumul spre castel
s-a preschimbat n ceaa
de pe turn
s-a preschimbat n eroul cu pr negru dintr-o poveste
scris de-un copil cu pr negru
publicat pentru prima oar n The Irish Times (editor de poezie Gerard
Smyth)
pg. 90
Eleanor Hooker
dr. Isabel Lazr
Eleanor Hookers debut poetry

collection, The Shadow Owner's
Companion (Dedalus Press) was
one of four collections shortlisted for the Strong/Shine Award, for Best
First Irish Collection 2012. Her second poetry collection, A Tug of Blue
is forthcoming from Dedalus in 2016.
Her poetry has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize (2014) and
translated into Polish. Her poetry has been published in literary
journals internationally, including: Poetry Ireland Review, POETRY
(Chicago), Agenda Poetry (London), The Stinging Fly, The SHOp, The
Moth, The Irish Times, POEM: International English Language Quarterly
and Cyphersand has been featured on RT Radio One.
She was awarded 1st Prize in the 2015 Bare Fiction Flash Fiction Prize
(UK). Her story will be published in the Spring 2016 issue of Bare
Fiction. Her short fiction has recently been published in The Woven Tale
Press and Banshee.
She holds an BA (Hons 1st) from the Open University, an MA in Cultural
History from the University of Northumbria (Hons) and an MPhil in
Creative Writing (Distinction) from Trinity College, Dublin. Trained as a
nurse and midwife, Eleanor is currently a helm and Press Officer for the
Lough Derg RNLI Lifeboat. For more, please visit eleanorhooker.com
pg. 91
Eleanor Hooker translation by: dr. Isabel Lazr

Colecia de poezii de debut a autoarei Eleanor Hooker, The Shadow
Owner's Companion (Dedalus Press), a fost una dintre cele patru colecii
nominalizate la premiul Strong/Shine Award, pentru Cea mai bun
colecie de debut irlandez n 2012. Cea de-a doua colecie a sa, A Tug of
Blue, este programat s fie publicat de Dedalus n 2016.
Poeziile sale au fost nominalizate pentru premiul Pushcart (2014) i au
fost traduse n polonez. Poeziile sale au fost publicate n gazete literare
internaionale, printre care: Poetry Ireland Review, POETRY (Chicago),
Agenda Poetry (Londra), The Stinging Fly, The SHOp, The Moth, The Irish
Times, POEM: International English Language Quarterly i Cyphers i au
fost transmise la RT Radio One.
A primit premiul I la ediia din 2015 a concursului Bare Fiction Flash
Fiction Prize (Marea Britanie). Povestirea sa va fi publicat n ediia de
primvar 2016 a Bare Fiction. Nuvela sa a aprut recent n publicaiile
The Woven Tale Press i Banshee.
Deine titlul de liceniat (ef de promoie) acordat de Open University,
a absolvit Masteratul n Istorie Cultural la University of Northumbria
(ef de promoie) i un Masterat n Filologie Scriere Creativ (cu
distincie) la Trinity College, Dublin. De profesie asistent medical i
moa, Eleanor este n prezent crmaci i ofier de pres la serviciul de
brci de salvare Lough Derg RNLI. Pentru mai multe informaii, v
rugm vizitai eleanorhooker.com
pg. 92

Insight
i.m. Michael Hartnett
And just because the stand of oaks was blind
she gave them eyes; iridescent glow stones
from fathomless seas. And once inclined
to hold the sky with seasoned hands grown
out of touch, they cupped the light, dappled
it for shadows and for shade. Now in sight
with her lonely walks on moonless nights.
They whisper to each other, even the sky is alone tonight.
She presses her eyes to their eyes and inside their world
she finds you there, naked surgeon, a light
by your well, your body unfurled
as the stars flow through you, to trace
your hopeful song, so music is heard in space.
Intuiie
i.m. Michael Hartnett
i numai pentru c rndul de stejari era orb
ea le-a dat ochi; pietre cu strlucire irizant
de la mri fr fund. i odat inclinate
pentru a susine cerul cu mini pricepute i pierd
dibcia, n form de ceac au prins lumina, au acoperit-o
cu stropi mpotriva umbrelor i a formei. Acum, zrind
lucrurile, le cunosc forma, se bat cu plimbrile ei n nopile fr lun.
i optesc unul altuia, chiar i cerul este singur ast sear.
i intuiete ochii n ochii lor i nuntrul lumii lor
te gsete pe tine, chirurg gol, o lumin
lng izvorul tu, trupul tu desfurat
precum stelele care miun prin tine, pentru a da de urma
cntecului tu plin de speran, astfel muzica este auzit n spaiu.
pg. 93

Singing Ice
Across the rigid icescape they heave
and haul colossal cables to the shadows
on the opposite shore. We shudder at the echoing
crack and coil of tensile steel on the cold lid of winter.
Back and forth the spectres murmur.
We hear them hum the hymns of the dead;
ceremonial chants that rise and fall for hours,
that gathering volume, resonate like breathless
air across empty glass. We venture out a foot or so.
beneath us air-sharks drop and dive through
slivers of thickening water, then rise to slam
the frozen under-surface. They tear long rips
that roar along the night, tracking us and splitting
the marbled floor at our feet. The percussions
petrify the living and the dead sing on.
Cntnd Gheaa
Peste peisajul rigid de ghea ei ridic
i trag cabluri colosale ctre umbrele
de pe malul opus. Ne cutremurm la ecoul
fcut de crpatul i nlnuirea extensiilor de oel pe pojghia rece a
iernii.
nainte i napoi spectrele murmur.
Le auzim cum fredoneaz imnurile morii;
psalmuri ceremoniale care se nal i coboar ore ntregi,
acel volum care se adun, se aude precum aerul respirat
peste pahare goale. Ne aventurm aproximativ un metru.
sub noi rechini de aer cad i se scufund prin
pg. 94

achii de ap care se ngroa, apoi se ridic pentru a plesni
suprafaa de dedesubt ngheat. Apoi se rup fii lungi
care rag n timpul nopii, dndu-ne de urm i despicnd
podeaua de marmur de la picioarele noastre. Percuiile
pietrific fiina i morii continu s cnte.
Mirrored
She visited again last night, no pike this time.
She was singing too. Her song is the sound of a heavy body
Dragging itself, deadly, up the stairs. Her malady
not too dissimilar to that thud-thump heartbeat
In my ears. She brought mirrors into my mind
and in my mind she filled the mirrors with crows,
huge-beaked, hungry crows. That fed. And though
I couldnt move, I kept my eyes open,
I wasnt frightened; I knew sooner or later Id wake,
And she would have to leave with her mirrors and her crows,
Leaving my pulse behind.
Reflectat
M-a vizitat din nou asear, fr nicio barier de aceast dat.
Cnta, de asemenea. Cntecul ei este sunetul unui trup greoi
Care se trage pe sine, mortal, pe scri n sus. Boala sa
nu foarte diferit de btile inimii precum btaia fcut de degetul
mare
n urechile mele. Mi-a adus oglinzi n mintea mea
Iar n mintea mea a umplut oglinzile cu corbi,
corbi cu ciocuri imense, nfometai. Care se hrneau. i dei
nu m puteam mica, mi-am inut ochii deschii,
Nu mi era fric; tiam c mai devreme sau mai trziu aveam s m
trezesc,
i ea ar fi plecat cu oglinzile i corbii si,
Lsndu-mi pulsul n urm.
pg. 95
Eugene
OConnell
traducerea de /
translation by: Elena
Daniela Radu
Eugene O' Connell has written two collections of poems. One Clear Call
(Bradshaw Books) and Diviner (Three Spires Press). He translated
Guntar Godins, Latvian poet, for Cork European City of Culture. He has
been invited to read as part of the Irish delegation to world expo in
Shanghai and Imram, Culture Ireland tour of the United States. He has
edited an anthology of Irish Poetry on the theme of Vision to be
published by Dedalus Press in September 2016. A new collection of his
poems is forthcoming.
Eugene O' Connell a scris dou colecii de poezie, intitulate: One Clear
Call publicat la Editura Bradshaw Books i Diviner publicat la Editura
Three Spires Press. A tradus poezii de poetul leton Guntar Godins pentru
Oraul Cork desemnat Capitala Cultural European. Poetul Eugene O'
Connell a fost invitat s lectureze lucrri n calitate de membru al
delegaiei irlandeze la Expoziia Mondial de la Shanghai, IMRAM
(Festivalul de literatur de limb irlandez) i Turneul culturii irlandeze
n Statele Unite. A editat o antologie de poezie irlandez cu tema:
Viziunea, care va fi publicat la Editura Dedalus Press n septembrie
2016 i are o nou colecie de poezie care urmeaz a fi publicat n
curnd.
pg. 96
Eugene OConnell translation by: Elena Daniela Radu

Beetle
in memory of my father
In far town lands they recognised
The bluster of that Volkswagen
Told of how they read the time
By the sound of the engines labour
Up the Veins before it settled
For the run in to Boherbue.
And talked of course, about the hours
He idled in the pubs, noticed how
Wrong footed he was by the sun,
That had moved since he went in,
Cute enough though to have the car
Faced for the back road home.
Whered hed go in before the Volks
Had time to settle, before the oils
Seeping into the sump, plip, plop,
Sounded so loud youd think that
The quiet of the house and the fields
About had never been disturbed.
pg. 97

Crbuul
n amintirea tatlui meu
n orelul din inuturile ndeprtate, ei au recunoscut
Rateurile acelui Volkswagen
Care le-a spus cum s neleag timpurile,
Citind sunetul ostenelii motorului,
Care pompa uleiul prin venele sale nainte de a porni
Pe drumul ctre Boherbue.
i am tifsuit despre orele
n care el trndvea la crcium, remarcnd
Faptul c fusese prins pe picior greit de ctre soarele
Care se micase de cnd intrase el i
Totodat era tare la-ndemn c maina
Era parcat n direcia drumului de ntoarcere acas.
Despre unde s-ar duce el nainte ca Volks-ul
S aib timp s se odihneasc, nainte ca uleiul
Scurs n baia de ulei s ropoteasc i s vuiasc,
Att de asurzitor nct ai putea crede c
Linitea casei i a cmpurilor
Din jur nu mai fusese niciodat astfel tulburat.
pg. 98

Rylane
I saw him once in the place of the rumour
of how he waited for a dead brother to step
off a bus, a place that had a weather of its
own, an atmosphere that clung to it like grief.
I didnt know him personally and now hes
gone can only guess at what possessed him
to sit all those years under a furze bush
that dripped on to his clothes. Maybe he
did know and didnt let on, since he had
no other interests, decided to play to the
gallery, ham it up for the prying eyes of
passengers whod warmed to his notoriety.
The legend of the man who waited in the back
of beyond for a bus to bring his brother home.
Rylane
L-am zrit cndva n locul unde se zvonise c st
ateptndu-i un frate mort s coboare
din autobuz, ntr-un loc unde clima era aa cum
dorea ea i atmosfera se lipea de ora precum aleanul.
Nu l-am cunoscut personal, iar acum
s-a dus, iar eu pot doar bnui ce l-a ndemnat
s stea atia ani sub o tuf de grozam
a crei sev picura pe hainele lui. Poate nu
a tiut i nici nu a vrut s dezvluie nimic, pentru c
nu-l mai interesa i altceva; s-a hotrt s joace pentru
galerie, exagernd pentru ochii indiscrei ai
cltorilor pe care i-a nsufleit faima lui.
Legenda omului care a ateptat n spatele
de dincolo, un autobuz care s-i aduc fratele acas.
pg. 99

Spectre
For S.OH.
One hand rested on the window sill
Of her apartment on Stephens Green,
The other one lifted to her mouth
Sheila OHagan scans the footpath
For a familiar face among the crowd.
Ghost in the machine, no doubt in my mind
But that she saw me pass her window,
Though I had tilted my head deliberately
Away from her framed figure in the glass.
Being a lady, we both knew that whatever
Slight real or imagined occurred would not
Be spoken of again in whatever company
We found ourselves, that our eyes would
Still find each other across the room.
Spectrul
Dedicat lui S.OH.
Cu o mn sprijinit pe pervazul ferestrei
Apartamentului ei aflat pe Stephens Green,
Iar cu cealalt mn ridicat
Sheila OHagan scruteaz aleea
ncercnd s zreasc un chip cunoscut n mulime.
Spiritul din mainrie, n mintea mea nu am nicio ndoial
C m-a vzut trecnd pe lng fereastra ei,
Dei am plecat voit capul,
Pentru a nu fi zrit de silueta ei nrmat n geam.
Ea este o doamn i de aceea tim foarte bine amndoi c orice
Scen s-ar petrece, orict de puin real sau imaginar ar fi ea,
Nu ar mai fi menionat vreodat de fa cu
Cei prezeni, dar privirile noastre
i-ar gsi drumul unele ctre celelalte n acea ncpere.
pg. 100
John W. Sexton
by: dr. Isabel Lazr
John W. Sexton is the author

of five poetry collections, the most recent being Petit Mal (Revival
Press, 2009) and The Offspring of the Moon (Salmon Poetry, 2013). His
sixth collection, Futures Pass, is forthcoming from Salmon.
He also created and wrote The Ivory Tower for RT Radio, which ran to
over one hundred half-hour episodes from 1999 to 2002. Two novels
based on the characters from this series have been published by the
OBrien Press: The Johnny Coffin Diaries and Johnny Coffin School-Dazed,
which have been translated into both Italian and Serbian.
Under the ironic pseudonym of Sex W. Johnston he has recorded an
album with legendary Stranglers frontman, Hugh Cornwell, entitled
Sons of Shiva, which has been released on Track Records.
He is a past nominee for The Hennessy Literary Award and his poem
The Green Owl won the Listowel Poetry Prize 2007. Also in 2007 he
was awarded a Patrick and Katherine Kavanagh Fellowship in Poetry.
John W. Sexton este autorul a cinci colecii de poezie, cele mai recente
fiind Petit Mal (Revival Press, 2009) i The Offspring of the Moon
(Salmon Poetry, 2013). Cea de-a asea colecie, Futures Pass, urmeaz
s apar la Salmon.
pg. 101
John W. Sexton translation by: dr. Isabel Lazr

Totodat, a creat i scris The Ivory Tower pentru RT Radio, care a fost
difuzat, ntre 1999 i 2002, timp de mai bine de o sut de episoade de
jumtate de or. Dou romane bazate pe personajele din acest program
au fost publicate de OBrien Press: The Johnny Coffin Diaries i Johnny
Coffin School-Dazed, care au fost traduse att n italian, ct i n srb.
Sub pseudonimul ironic Sex W. Johnston a nregistrat un album cu
solistul legendarei trupe Stranglers, Hugh Cornwell, intitulat Sons of
Shiva, care a fost lansat de Track Records.
A fost nominalizat n trecut pentru Premiul Literar The Hennessy i
poezia sa The Green Owl a ctigat Premiul de Poezie Listowel, n 2007.
Tot n 2007, a primit un grant Patrick and Katherine n domeniul
poeziei.
pg. 102

The Blue-Skinned Witch
The blue-skinned witch is as dark as a sloe.
She stands on the wavering edge of shadows,
waiting for the innocent to wander
close to her place. Theyll never see her, just
feel a cold rush of air touch their faces.
Then theyre caught for good by the blue-skinned witch.
So confused they hardly know which is which,
they eat thistles for cabbage, bite a sloe
thinking it an apple. Watch their faces
next time you visit them in the shadows.
Deadened from eating bitter things, they just
sit there pulling faces, never wander
from the place theyre trapped, will never wander
till the day they die. All the time the witch
will be preparing a bed for you, just
in case you decide to stay. Dont. One sloe
will fur your tongue for good, install shadows
forever inside your head; makes faces
at any fool who eats it. Makes faces
at the curious eaters who wonder
what one will taste like. They taste like shadows
which have been fermented for months. The witch
takes advantage of this fact, knows a sloe
will keep all those fools dull, sluggish. Not just
for a few months, but forever. Not just
forever, but as long as clocks have faces.
Thats her favourite saying. Clocks dont go slow
in Eternity is another. No wonder
she catches fools. Whod tell her for a witch,
this humorous old lady? The shadows
pg. 103

for starters; and the souls trapped in shadows.
This is not a world for the good or just.
For this world belongs to the blue-skinned witch.
No stamps in her stamp-album. Just faces.
So, next time be careful where you wander.
And, till the first frost, never eat a sloe.
Never tread on shadows, avoid faces
you dont know. Just be safe: never wander.
The blue-skinned witch is as dark as a sloe.
pg. 104

Vrjitoarea cu pielea albastr
Vrjitoarea cu pielea albastr este la fel de ntunecat ca un trn.
St pe marginea ovitoarea a umbrelor,
ateptnd ca inocentul s hoinreasc
aproape de locul su. Nu o vor vedea niciodat, vor simi
numai o pal de aer rece atingndu-le feele.
Atunci sunt prini de-a binelea de vrjitoarea cu pielea albastr.
Att de confuzi nct cu greu tiu care-cum,
mnnc ciulini n loc de varz, muc din trn
creznd c este un mr. Privii-le feele
urmtoarea dat cnd i vizitai n umbre.
Amorii de la mncat de lucruri amare, stau numai
acolo schimonosindu-i feele, nu hoinresc niciodat
din locul n care sunt captivi, nu vor hoinri niciodat
pn n ziua n care vor muri. Mereu vrjitoarea
va pregti un pat pentru tine, n cazul
n care te hotrti s stai. Nu o face. Un trn
i va acoperi cu blan limba pentru totdeauna, va instala umbre
pentru totdeauna n capul tu; se strmb
la oricare prost care mnnc. Se strmb
la mnccioii curioi care se ntreab
ce gust are fiecare. Au gust de umbre
care au fost fermentate luni ntregi. Vrjitoarea
profit de acest lucru, cunoate un trn
care i va ine pe toi acei proti nerozi, trndavi. Nu numai
pentru cteva luni, dar pentru totdeauna. Nu numai
pentru totdeuna, dar atta timp ct ceasurile vor avea fee.
Acela este cntecul ei preferat. Ceasurile nu merg ncet
n Eternitate este altul. Nu-i de mirare
c prinde proti. Cine ar spune c este vrjitoare,
aceast doamn n vrst cu simul umorului? Umbrele
pg. 105

ca aperitive; i sufletele captive n umbre.
Aceasta nu este o lume pentru cei buni i coreci.
Pentru c aceast lume aparine vrjitoarei cu pielea albastr.
Niciun timbru n albumul ei de timbre. Numai fee.
Aadar, urmtoarea dat s fii cu bgare de seam pe unde hoinreti.
i, pn la primul nghe, niciodat s nu mnnci un trn.
Niciodat s nu calci pe umbre, s evii feele
pe care nu le cunoti. S fii precaut numai: niciodat s nu hoinreti.
Vrjitoarea cu pielea albastr este la fel de ntunecat ca un trn.
pg. 106

The Green Owl
In class on Tuesday she draws a picture for Mrs Grey
and gets two gold stars. Its a picture of a house inside the moon
Inside the chimney of the house is a badger, his snout pointing up
and inside the walls of the house are mice running up and down
and shes drawn herself inside a fishbowl with a single goldfish
and shes wearing a dress thats covered in ladybirds
and the goldfish is kissing her kissing her
She brings the picture home with her and mammy pins it up
Shes in her bed now looking at the picture through moonlight
Daddys shouts move through the walls, tremble the carpet of her room
She gets out of bed and stands on the carpet to keep them down
Outside in the dark an owl says who
With half its face bright in the tall sky
the moons face is half black like mammys
Night by night shes been watching the moon bruising in the tall sky
On Wednesday for Mrs Grey she makes a green owl from plasticine
and gets two gold stars. The green owl has big goggles on
and its goggles catch and store moonlight,
and moonbeams can come from its eyes
Night by night shes going to watch
the moons face heal in the tall bright sky
watch the moons face become white like mammys
On Thursday she falls asleep in class, her head resting on her desk
She dreams of the green owl and it carries her and mammy to the moon
Its lashing wet as they fly through the sky
and a train shouts who through the driving rain
and they come to a house with mice in the walls
and a badger breathes smoke through the chimney
and mammy puts her safely in a fishbowl
and a single goldfish kisses her kisses her
and Mrs Grey gives her two gold stars
pg. 107

Bufnia verde
n clas mari ea deseneaz o imagine a Doamnei Grey
i primete dou stele de aur. Este un desen a unei case dinuntrul lunii
nuntrul hornului casei este un bursuc, botul su artnd n sus
i nuntrul pereilor casei sunt oareci alergnd n sus i-n jos
i s-a desenat pe ea nsi ntr-un acvariu cu un singur pete de aur
i ea poart o rochie care este acoperit cu buburuze
iar petele de aur o srut o srut
Ea aduce desenul acas iar mami l prinde cu bold
Ea este n patul su acum uitndu-se la desen prin lumina lunii
ipetele lui tati trec prin perei, tremur covorul din camera sa
Se d jos din pat i st pe covor pentru a le ine
Afar n ntuneric o bufni spune bu-hu-hu
Cu jumtate de fa luminat n naltul cerului
faa lunii este pe jumtate neagr precum a mamei
Sear de sear a privit cum luna se nvineea n naltul cerului
Miercuri pentru Doamna Grey face o bufni verde din plastilin
i primete dou stele de aur. Bufnia verde poart nite ochelari
fumurii mari
i ochelarii si fumurii prind i nmagazineaz lumina lunii,
i razele lunii pot s vin din ochii ei
Noapte de noapte va veghea
cum faa lunii se vindec n naltul cerului luminos
va veghea cum faa lunii devine alb precum a mamei
Joi aipete n clas, capul ei odihnindu-se pe banc
Viseaz bufnia verde i cum le duce pe ea i pe mami la lun
Umezeala le biciuiete pe msur ce zboar prin cer
i un tren ip bu-hu-hu prin ploaia pornit
i vin la o cas cu oareci n perei
i un bursuc sufl fum prin horn
i mami o pune n siguran ntr-un acvariu
i un singur pete de aur o srut o srut
i Doamna Grey i d dou stele de aur.
pg. 108

Sunlight
I rest on top of things, but am never
at rest. On the surface of lakes, the sea, even
the tepid water in a bucket, I am restless,
flittering about, always shifting. Thats the way
I am when you look me in the face, anytime
you can bear to look. Ive come a long way
and can never really stop, am travelling further
yet. Wives lie out on their lawns, relishing my
touch, while their husbands stew in their own
sweat. Only women know the secret of me: to
lie perfectly still and let me accumulate on their
skin. And all those wives are mine, all of them
sitting out patiently soaking me in, none of them
jealous that I have them all, darkening under me.
Lumina soarelui
M odihnesc deasupra lucrurilor, dar niciodat
nu am linite. Pe suprafaa lacurilor, a mrii, chiar i pe
apa cldu dintr-o gleat, sunt nelinitit,
mutndu-m de colo-colo, mereu oscilnd. Aa sunt
cnd m priveti n fa, oricnd
reziti s te uii. Am btut o cale lung
i nu pot niciodat s m opresc cu adevrat, cltoresc nc
mai departe. Neveste stau ntinse afar pe peluzele lor, savurnd
atingerea mea, n timp ce soii lor se nbu n propria
lor sudoare. Numai femeile mi cunosc secretul: s stea
ntinse perfect nemicate i s m lase pe mine s m concentrez n
pielea lor. i toate acele neveste sunt ale mele, toate
stnd afar rbdtoare absorbindu-m nuntrul lor, niciuna dintre ele
geloas c le am pe toate, nnegrindu-se sub mine.
pg. 109
Publishing History
John W. Sexton: The Blue-Skinned Witch first appeared in
Blackwater#1, and is from the collection Vortex, published by
Doghouse in 2005. The Green Owl won the Listowel Poetry Prize 2007
and first appeared in TheListowel Writers Week Winners
Anthology 2007, and is from the collection Petit Mal, published by
The Revival Press in 2009. Sunlight first appeared in Revival Poetry
Journal #13, and is from the collection The Offspring of the Moon,
published by Salmon Poetry in 2013.
Cronologia operelor publicate:
John W. Sexton: Vrjitoarea cu pielea albastr a aprut pentru prima
dat n Blackwater, primul numr i face parte din colecia Vortex,
publicat de Doghouse n 2005. Bufnia verde a ctigat Premiul de
Poezie Listowel, n 2007; a aprut pentru prima dat n Antologia
Sptmnii Scriitorilor Ctigtori ai Premiului Listowel, n 2007,
i face parte din colecia Petit Mal, publicat de The Revival Press, n
2009. Lumina soarelui a aprut pentru prima dat n gazeta Revival
Poetry, numrul 13 i face parte din colecia The Offspring of the
Moon, publicat de Salmon Poetry, n 2013.
pg. 110
The photo is copyrighted to Monika Chmielarz
Leeanne Quinn
traducerea de / translation by: dr.
Isabel Lazr
Leeanne Quinn was born in Drogheda. Her debut collection, Before

You, was published in 2012 and was highly commended in the Forward
Prize for Poetry 2013. Her poems have been widely anthologised with
poems appearing in Windharp: Poems of Ireland Since 1916 (Penguin,
2015), Berryman's Fate: A Centenary Celebration in Verse (Arlen,
2014), If Ever You Go: A Map of Dublin in Poetry and Song (Dedalus,
2014), The Forward Book of Poetry 2013 (Faber, 2012), among others.
Her work has also been published in a variety of magazines and
journals including The Irish Times, The Stinging Fly, and The SHOp and
broadcast on RT Radio One. In 2012 she was the recipient of an Arts
Council Bursary Award for Literature. She lives in Dublin.
Leeanne Quinn s-a nscut la Drogheda. Colecia sa de debut, Before
You, a fost publicat n 2012 i a fost ndelung ludat la ediia din 2013
a Forward Prize for Poetry. Poeziile sale au aprut n numeroase
antologii de poeme, printre care: Windharp: Poems of Ireland Since
1916 (Penguin, 2015), Berryman's Fate: A Centenary Celebration in
Verse (Arlen, 2014), If Ever You Go: A Map of Dublin in Poetry and Song
(Dedalus, 2014), The Forward Book of Poetry 2013 (Faber, 2012).
Creaiile sale au fost, totodat, publicate n diferite reviste i gazete,
printre care The Irish Times, The Stinging Fly i The SHOp, au fost
transmise la RT Radio One. n 2012, a fost premiat cu o burs pentru
literatur de Arts Council. Locuiete la Dublin.
pg. 111
Leeanne Quinn translation by: dr. Isabel Lazr

Before You
It was all crimson or black anyway,
eyes opened or closed it looked good
out there, when things were still
beyond reach and no one had come
to warn you of your potential
like you were wood or stone, waiting
to be something made from wood or stone.
And the sun didnt need to be fixed
to a certain height or lowered
to a specific point, for you to be happy.
It was glamorous too, in the pre-emptive
stage, when you had gathered yourself
to yourself as if you were love or
simply something warmer
than your own skin. The air
was breathable then, it took from you
and was returned
unblemished, and with that, life
was in the wings. Beating a silent drum
before you, telling you this,
and this, and this.
pg. 112

naintea ta
Totul era rou aprins sau negru oricum,
cu ochii deschii sau nchii arta bine
acolo, cnd lucrurile erau nc
departe de a fi atinse i nimeni nu venise
s te avertizeze de potenialul tu
ca i cum ai fi fost lemn sau piatr, ateptnd
s fii ceva fcut din lemn sau piatr.
Iar soarele nu avea nevoie s fie pus
la o anumit nlime sau cobort
la un anumit punct, pentru ca tu s fii fericit.
Era totodat strlucitor, n faza de
pre-golire, cnd te-ai adunat pe tine
pentru tine nsui ca i cnd ai fi fost dragoste sau
pur i simplu ceva mai cald
ca propria ta piele. Aerul
era respirabil atunci, a luat din tine
i a fost napoiat
neptat, i cu aceea, viaa
era pe aripi. Btnd o tob tcut
naintea ta, spunndu-i asta,
i asta, i asta.
pg. 113

The Impact
It is late evening when the shouts
of local boys and girls begin. Across this city
street they shoot footballs, bottle tops,
hot chips from the chip shop whose steadfast
neon light shines opposite my window,
more dependable than summer sun.
Car horns bleat intermittently, or tyres break
to a dead halt, and each time I look out
I expect to see some body flung
far from itself, broken to a new form
but the cars only ever move on, trailing
coarse words that illicit appreciative roars.
As evening darkens and turns the windows
of vacant houses black, they gather under
the light of a lamppost, blow cigarette smoke
in fat rings that grow thin, imperfect halos.
As the smoke reaches a bouquet of flowers
tied above them on the lamppost,
I wonder if they know what misfortune
it marksthough wilting now, I often wake
to see them blooming. As they begin
move on, a small boy flicks
the butt of his cigarette at the windscreen
of an oncoming car, his parting gesture.
For a moment the embers flare
magnificently, a cheer goes up
in recognition of the boy, his daring,
the unexpected beauty of the impact.
pg. 114

Impactul
Este o dup amiaz trzie atunci cnd strigtele
bieilor i fetelor din mprejurimi ncep. De cealalt parte a acestei
strzi a oraului arunc cu mingi de fotbal, capace de sticle,
cu cartofi prjii fierbini de la toneta a crei lumin de neon
neclintit lumineaz de cealalt parte a ferestrei mele,
mai de ncredere dect soarele de var.
Claxoanele mainilor url nencetat, sau cauciucurile scrnesc
la o oprire brusc, i de fiecare dat cnd m uit afar
m atept s vd un trup aruncat
departe de el nsui, mrunit ntr-o nou form-
dar mainile merg ntotdeauna mai departe, trnd
mai degrab cuvinte aspre dect rgete de apreciere.
Pe msur ce nserarea se las i transform ferestrele
Caselor goale n negru, ei se adun sub
lumina unui stlp de iluminat, sufl fumul unei igri
n inele groase care se subiaz, devin cercuri imperfecte.
Pe msur ce fumul ajunge la un buchet de flori
prins deasupra lor pe stlpul de iluminat,
M ntreb dac tiu ce ghinion
aduce-dei se ofilesc acum, deseori m trezesc
pentru a le vedea nflorind. Pe msur ce ncep
s se ndeprteze, un biat mic arunc
mucul igrii sale n direcia parbrizului
unei maini care se apropie, gestul su de plecare.
Pentru o clip, tciunele aprins plpie
magnific, o salv se nal
n cinstea biatului, ndrzneala sa,
frumuseea neateptat a impactului.
pg. 115

This is Where
You phone from another country,
I cant remember where or why
youre calling. I cant hear
what youre saying
until I soon realise
youre explaining yourself
or more specifically
your absence. Then my room
becomes another, familiar
yet far from where I should be.
A noise keeps coming,
a noise that makes me tense
my shoulders as if something
is about to fallon either
one of us. You crackle
on the other end of the line,
your voice changing into one
that isnt yours. And then
your body goes too, from
right before me, subdued
by the din that is all
of a sudden every where.
What city are you in,
I hear myself saying.
I almost know, I almost feel
the answer rise to my lips,
the word that will fix what
is broken here. I cant make
my mind reach it. I say your name
instead and suddenly
youre gone, quick as a
guillotine the line goes dead,
and the silence rings in my ear,
like a punishment.
pg. 116

Aici este Unde
mi dai telefon din alt ar,
Nu-mi amintesc de unde sau de ce
m suni. Nu pot s aud
ce mi spui
pn cnd realizez dintr-odat
c te justifici
sau mai precis
absena ta. Apoi camera mea
devine alta, cunoscut
cu toate acestea departe de aceea unde ar trebui s fiu.
Se aude ncontinuu un zgomot,
un zgomot care m face ncordat
mi ncordeaz umerii ca i cnd ceva
este pe cale s se prbueasc
unul dintre noi. Tu hri
la cellalt capt al firului,
vocea ta se schimb ntruna
care nu este a ta. i apoi
trupul tu se duce de asemenea, de
lng mine, supus
de zgomotul care este
dintr-odat peste tot.
n ce ora eti,
M aud rostind.
Aproape c tiu, aproape c simt
rspunsul s-a ridicat ctre buzele mele,
cuvntul care va repara ceea
ce este stricat aici. Nu pot s-mi fac
mintea s-l gseasc. n loc de asta
i rostesc numele i dintr-odat
ai disprut, repede ca o
ghilotin, legtura cade,
iar linitea sun n urechea mea,
ca o pedeaps.
pg. 117
Maeve OSullivan
by: dr. Isabel Lazr
Maeve OSullivan works as a

journalism and communications
lecturer in further education in Dublin. Her poems and haiku have been
widely published, anthologized and translated in Irish and international
journals over the last twenty years. She has published three collections:
Initial Response (haiku, 2011), Vocal Chords (poetry, 2014) and A Train
Hurtles West (haiku, 2015), all of them with Alba Publishing
(www.albapublishing.com). Maeve is a founder member of Haiku
Ireland and the Hibernian Poetry Workshop, and she also performs at
festivals and other events with The Poetry Divas collective of women
poets. She conducts workshops in haiku with adults and children.
www.twitter.com/maeveos.
Maeve OSullivan lucreaz ca ziarist i lector de comunicare n

nvmntul postliceal din Dublin. Poeziile i creaiile sale haiku au
fost publicate peste tot, incluse n antologii i traduse, n reviste
irlandeze i internaionale n ultimii douzeci de ani. A publicat trei
colecii: Initial Response (haiku, 2011), Vocal Chords (poezie, 2014) i A
Train Hurtles West (haiku, 2015), toate aprute la Alba Publishing
(www.albapublishing.com). Maeve este o membr fondatoare a Haiku
Ireland i a seminarului de poezie Hibernian. De asemenea, recit la
festivaluri i la alte evenimente cu grupul de poete The Poetry Divas.
Susine seminarii de haiku pentru aduli i copii.
www.twitter.com/maeveos.
pg. 118
Maeve OSullivan translation by: dr. Isabel Lazr

Letting Go Of vila
I could have travelled there today,
could have walked its medieval walls
and lit a candle for the vulnerables
in the Basilica de San Vincente.
I am letting go of the eagle caves, the cathedral,
and the Monasterio de Santo Tmas,
but most of all the Convento de Santa Teresa
housing her ring finger, and her ring.
She let go of wealth, of marriage; encouraged
her sisters to leave off their shoes,
moved beyond pain, beyond words of prayer
to a place of ecstasy, then tears.
I am letting go of all of this
in the district of letters where brass
poems are set into the very ground.
It is love alone that gives worth to all things.
pg. 119

Lsnd vila
A fi putut s m aduc acolo astzi,
a fi putut s strbat zidurile sale medievale
i s aprind o lumnare pentru cei neajutorai
n Basilica de San Vincente.
Las n urm peterile vulturilor, catedrala,
i Monasterio de Santo Tmas,
dar mai ales Convento de Santa Teresa
care gzduiete inelarul su i inelul su.
Ea a renunat la bogie, la cstorie; i-a ncurajat
surorile s renune la pantofii lor,
s-a mutat dincolo de durere, dincolo de cuvinte de rugciune
ntr-un loc de suprem fericire, apoi lacrimi.
Renun la toate astea
n sectorul literelor unde poeziile
de alam sunt mpmntenite.
Dragostea i nimic altceva este cea care d valoare tuturor lucrurilor.
pg. 120

New-time Waltz
Round and round the nursing home she goes,
stopping now and then just to complain,
her broken thinking keeps us on our toes.
Even when its time to have a doze,
her restless spirit will not be contained
so round and round the nursing home she goes.
She knows the names that she and father chose,
but other things we simply must explain,
Unlike before, all arguments are closed;
I bite my tongue, the conversation wanes
as round and round the nursing home we go.
Inside her room, a single long-stemmed rose,
a card whose meaning she cannot retain,
Todays events are blurred, old memories flow
who knows what really happens in the brain?
Round and round the nursing home she goes,
pg. 121

Vals nou
Roat, roat de-a lungul azilului se mic,
oprindu-se din cnd n cnd numai pentru a se vita,
judecata sa strmb ne ine cu sufletul la gur.
Nici mcar cnd e timpul s ia o doz,
spiritul su nelinitit nu va fi mpcat
aa c roat, roat de-a lungul azilului se mic.
tie numele pe care ea i tata le-au ales,
dar alte lucruri trebuie pur i simplu s le explicm,
Spre deosebire de nainte, toate argumentele sunt nchise;
mi muc limba, discuia se duce
pe msur ce roat, roat de-a lungul azilului ne micm.
n camera sa, un singur trandafir cu o tulpin lung,
o carte de joc a crei semnificaie nu poate s o rein,
Evenimentele de astzi sunt n cea, amintiri de demult plutesc
cine tie ce se ntmpl cu adevrat n creier?
Roat, roat de-a lungul azilului se mic
pg. 122

Summer haiku
choppy Irish Sea
failing to dislodge
this red starfish
***
poppy bed
the unopened ones
as lovely as the blooms
***
a garden full of sunflowers swaying tall
***
muddy summer frogpond no splash
***
reject samsara?
this still summer river
this wild path
***
these stone walls
hemming him in too
cinnabar caterpillar
***
cloudy afternoon
my sweet pea flowers
becoming peas
pg. 123

Haiku de var
Marea Irlandez agitat
dnd gre s izgoneasc
aceast stea de mare roie
***
pat de maci
cei nenflorii
la fel de gingai ca cei n floare
***
o grdin plin de floarea-soarelui legnndu-se nalt
***
iazul cu broate noroios vara nicio plescial
***
refuz samsara?6
acest ru de var linitit
aceast potec slbatic
***
aceste ziduri de piatr
nchizndu-l i pe el nuntru
omid de cinabru
***
dup-amiaz nnorat...
ncnttoarele mele flori de mazre
devin boabe de mazre
Samsara se refer la ciclul de rencarnri sau renateri din religiile

orientale (n. tr.).
pg. 124
Mary ODonnell
traducerea de /
translation by: dr. Isabel Lazr
Mary ODonnell is a poet and

novelist. Her seventh collection, Those
April Fevers, was published this year
by Arc UK and Inpress Recommends (UK) recently praised it as follows:
This sharp, distinctive collection soars like verse and sings with a
unique emotional intensity. Decisive. Ruthless. Brilliant. Other
collections include the very popular September Elegies, Unlegendary
Heroes, and her selected poems, The Place of Miracles.
Her most recent novel is the novel Where They Lie (New Island
Books), described by Carlo Gebler as marvellous and troubling last
year. This novel takes as its subject the trauma of a Protestant family in
the wake of the disappearance of their murdered loved ones. Other
fiction includes the best-selling novel The Light-Makers, Virgin and the
Boy, The Elysium Testament and Storm Over Belfast.
She has won several prestigious prizes, including the Fish International
Short Story Award, and the Listowel Writers Week Short Fiction
Award. She was also a prizewinner in the Cardiff International Poetry
Competition. Other awards include the James Joyce Ireland-Australia
Award (2001), as well as a residency at the Irish College in Paris
(2012). She was co-winner of the Irodalmi Jelen Award for Poetry in
Translation (Hungary) in 2012. She is an experienced teacher of
creative writing and member of the multi-disciplinary arts organisation
Aosdana. www.maryodonnell.com
pg. 125
Mary ODonnell translation by: dr. Isabel Lazr

Mary ODonnell scrie poezii i proz. Cea de-a aptea colecie a sa,
Those April Fevers, a fost publicat anul acesta de Arc UK i Inpress
Recommends (Marea Britanie) i-a adus laude astfel: Aceast colecie
ptrunztoare i distinct se nal precum un vers i cnt cu o
intensitate emoional unic. Decisiv. Nemiloas. Sclipitoare. Alte
colecii includ poeziile foarte cunoscute September Elegies, Unlegendary
Heroes and her selected poems, The Place of Miracles.
Cel mai recent roman al su este Where They Lie (New Island Books),
caracterizat anul trecut de Carlo Gebler ca uimitor i problematic.
Acest roman are ca subiect trauma suferit de o familie protestant n
faa dispariiei celor dragi care fuseser omori. Alte opere de ficiune
care s-au aflat pe lista celor mai bine vndute romane sunt The LightMakers, Virgin and the Boy, The Elysium Testament i Storm Over Belfast.
A ctigat numeroase premii importante, printre care Fish
International Short Story Award i Listowel Writers Week Short
Fiction Award. De asemenea, a fost distins cu un premiu la concursul
internaional de poezie de la Cardiff. Printre celelalte premii se numr
James Joyce Ireland-Australia Award (2001), precum i o burs la Irish
College de la Paris (2012). A ctigat, alturi de altcineva, premiul
pentru traducere Irodalmi Jelen (Ungaria) n 2012. Este o profesoar cu
experien, prednd scriere creativ, i este membr a organizatiei
artistice multi-disciplinare Aosdana. www.maryodonnell.com
pg. 126

A Poem from Gotland
in Memoriam, 13th November 2015
It was a day of boredom and the words would not flow
Now evening, four degrees centigrade, dark, westerly winds
And the Baltic rushing whitely to the edge of the town
The lights from the ferry wink and remind me of ferries
At home being watched idly by people in the gloaming
Out for walks in Dun Laoghaire.
It will rain tonight, but I will not fly in my dreams
As the winds buffet this house,
And innocence has been murdered
While we rest here, our words unflowing
I cannot fly west, cannot help
Know nothing yet of the death of a colleagues daughter
A 17 year old who entered Le Bataclan
On a false pass and was shot
Still I know nothing of the blood and broken flesh
Le Carrion, Le Petit Cambouge,
La Belle Equippe, Stade de France,
Out there in the night the wind moves
Like a rampaging animal among winters birches
Finds no holding place
Except where it strikes the wall of this house
I will survive the night as the young are murdered
As the killers shoot themselves
As hatred takes its stroll through Paris
Tomorrow its hard to believe
That I can try to write again
Or any of us
pg. 127

O poezie din Gotland
in Memoriam, 13 noiembrie 2015
Era o zi de plictiseal, iar cuvinte nu voiau s curg
Acum dup amiaz, patru grade celsius, ntuneric, aripi dinspre vest
i Marea Baltic grbindu-se nspumat la marginea oraului
Luminile de la feribot clipesc i mi amintesc de bacuri
Acas fiind urmrit lene de oamenii care ieeau la apus
n plimbare n Dun Laoghaire.
Va ploua ast sear, dar eu nu voi zbura n visele mele
Pe msur ce vnturile lovesc aceast cas,
i inocena a fost omort
n timp ce noi ne odihnim aici, cuvintele noastre necurgnd
Eu nu pot s zbor spre vest, nu pot s ajut
Nu tiu nc nimic despre moartea fiicei unui coleg
De 17 ani care a intrat n sala de spectacol Le Bataclan
Cu un permis fals i a fost mpucat
nc nu tiu nimic de sngele i carnea sfiat
Le Carrion, Le Petit Cambouge,
La Belle Equippe, Stade de France,
Acolo n noapte vntul bate
Precum un animal furios printre nuielele iernii
Nu gsete loc pentru a se adposti
Dect unde lovete peretele casei sale
Voi supravieui acestei nopi pe msur ce tinerii sunt ucii
Pe msur ce criminalii se mpuc
Pe msur ce ura miun prin Paris
Mine este greu de crezut
C voi ncerca s scriu din nou
Sau altcineva dintre noi
pg. 128

Sandals
The last time someone fitted a pair of sandals
was in Camden Street. I remember
how his deft fingers caressed beneath
the arches of my feet, how they slipped
around my ankles as he found the strap,
fastened it, then glanced up, teasing out
my approval of something other
than sandals. They suit you! he said, and soon
I danced from the shop, out into market stalls,
the red straps soft on my ankles,
feet cool against new leather
as the sun beat down through traffic fumes,
the afternoon alive as I moved past the crates
of oranges, persimmons, bright red peppers.
pg. 129

Sandale
Ultima dat cnd cuiva i-a venit o pereche de sandale
a fost pe strada Camden. mi amintesc
cum degetele lui ndemnatice mi mngiau dedesubtul
arcurilor picioarelor mele, cum alunecau
n jurul gleznelor mele cnd a gsit bareta,
a strns-o, apoi s-a uitat n sus, tachinndu-m
pentru a-mi da acordul despre altceva
dect saldalele. i se potrivesc a spus el i imediat
n pai de dans am pit din magazin, afar n standurile pieei,
baretele roii moi pe gleznele mele,
picioare reci peste piele nou
cum soarele btea prin fumul traficului,
dup-amiaza vie pe msur ce trec de lzi
de portocale, curmale japoneze, ardei grai de un rou deschis.
pg. 130

The Little Waves, like Judgements
Near the third beach beyond the town,
The Syrians have arrived with baggage
And chattels of their journeys.
The people say Welcome to Sweden,
You are safe here. This winter in Visby,
They live in holiday chalets; already,
They walk the seafront with shopping bags,
With clear faces. They will not be hungry
Or thirsty, hounded like sewer-rats.
With what dignity they walk.
As if nothing had happened,
And they come unmarked,
Their faces knowing only the future.
Their boys are playing football
In the grass beneath gunmetal, bare trees.
Next summer, their children will swim
On the warm shoreline, tossed
By the little waves, shingle and sand,
A whole sea like a judgement on us,
Sea boulders like full stops at sunset.
pg. 131

Valurile mici, precum prerile
n apropierea celei de-a treia plaj dincolo de ora,
Sirienii au sosit cu bagaje
i acareturi din cltoriile lor.
Oamenii spun Bine ai venit n Suedia,
Eti n siguran aici. n aceast iarn n Visby,
Locuiesc n cabane de vacan; deja,
Se plimb pe falez cu pungi de cumprturi,
Cu fee curate. Nu le va fi foame
Sau sete, hituii ca obolanii de canal.
Cu ce demnitate merg.
Ca i cum nimic nu s-ar fi ntmplat.
i vin nemarcai,
Feele lor cunoscnd numai viitorul.
Bieii lor joac fotbal
In iarb dedesubt bronz de arme, copaci desfrunzii.
Vara viitoare, copiii lor vor nota
n apa cldu de la mal, cltinai
De valurile mici, pietri i nisip,
O mare ntreag precum o judecat asupra noastr
Bolovani din mare precum puncte la asfinit.
pg. 132
Nessa
OMahony
Nessa OMahony is a Dublin-born poet. She has published four books

of poetry Bar Talk, appeared (1999), Trapping a Ghost (2005), In Sight
of Home (2009) and Her Fathers Daughter, published by Salmon in
September 2014. Novelist Joseph OConnor described In Sight of Home
as a moving, powerful and richly pleasurable read, audaciously
imagined and achieved whilst poet Tess Gallagher said of Her Fathers
Daughter that words are her witching sticks and she employs them
with beautiful, engaging intent, the better to make present what has
preceded and what approaches.
OMahony won the National Womens Poetry Competition in 1997 and
was shortlisted for the Patrick Kavanagh Prize and Hennessy Literature
Awards.
Poeta Nessa OMahony s-a nscut n Dublin. A publicat patru volume
de poezie intitulate: Sporovind la bar, publicat n 1999, Capcane pentru
o fantom, n 2005, Se zrete casa, n 2009 i Fiica tatlui ei, publicat
la editura Salmon n septembrie 2014. Romancierul Joseph OConnor a
descris volumul Se zrete casa ca fiind o lectur rvitoare, puternic,
plin de bucurie, de o imaginaie ndrznea i mplinit n vreme ce
poeta Tess Gallagher a spus despre volumul Fiica tatlui ei c folosete
cuvintele precum o baghet magic i le d rolul de a fi frumoase i
pg. 133
Nessa OMahony translation by: Elena Daniela Radu
atrgtoare pentru ca noi s simim din plin ceea ce a fost i ceea ce va

s fie.
Poeta Nessa OMahony a primit premiul Concursului Naional de Poezie
Feminin n 1997 i a fost inclus pe lista lucrrilor care au concurat
pentru obinerea Premiului Patrick Kavanagh i Premiului Hennessy
pentru Literatur.
pg. 134

A Poppy for Aoife
for the Beary family
That was the summer
we had to learn patience,
follow the gardens rules,
trust the slow-mo reveal
as each green pod plumped,
strained, split its seams,
letting red silk out.
Breath held, wed watch
the skies; one downpour
would tear those skirts,
trample the soil
with petals.
But the weather held,
sky heavy as our thoughts.
Take your time.
Your parents waited
all their lives for you,
like their parents, too.
It is natures rule:
you cannot rush
beauty.
pg. 135

Un mac pentru Aoife
Poem dedicat familiei Beary
n vara aceea
a trebuit s nv s am rbdare,
s respect regulile grdinii,
s sper c micarea cu ncetinitorul va dezvlui
fiecare pstaie verde, dolofan,
i arcuit, care se va despica la tiv,
pentru a elibera mtasea roiatic.
Cu respiraia ntretiat, am privi
spre cer; ploaia torenial
le-ar sfia fustiele i
ar presra pmntul
cu petale.
Dar vremea a rmas aa;
cerul era ncrcat precum gndurile noastre.
Nu te grbi.
Prinii ti te-au ateptat
ntreaga lor via,
precum prinii lor nainte.
Este o lege a naturii:
nu poi zori
frumuseea.
pg. 136

Absence
Our regular route: cross the bridge,
up the hill, past trees,
along neat green squares
that front each house
in this suburban terrace.
Station wagons, sentinel
at each gate, dissapprove
of each dog sniff, of lingering
for a twitch of curtains.
But nothing looks out
at this empty sky, bereft
of clouds, of movement.
Was it last year
that swifts carved their curve
here? Or the year before?
The nest on the burglar alarm
has crumbled, a winters storm
washed away any other trace,
like the names of things
we knew only yesterday.
pg. 137

Absena
Drumul nostru obinuit: traversm podul,
urcm dealul, trecem pe lng copacii
i ptrelele verzi primenite
din faa fiecrei case
aflat n irul teraselor suburbane.
Mainile de familie, santinele
la fiecare poart, sunt dezgustate de
cinii care le adulmec sau de cei care se-nvrtesc pe-acolo
ateptnd pn i cea mai mic micare a draperiei.
Dar nimeni nu ia n seam
cerul pustiu, lipsit de
nori, de micare.
M ntreb dac lstunii
i-au arcuit vrfurile aripilor aici
anul trecut? Sau poate cu un an nainte?
Cuibul de pe alarma anti-efracie
s-a prbuit, viscolul
a ters toate urmele existenei sale,
precum denumirile obiectelor
pe care le-am inut minte doar ieri.
pg. 138

OLearys Grave
Theyre reshooting the Rising
up at Collins Barracks.
White winnebagos line up,
Volunteers form an orderly queue
for the catering, Asgard safely
moored behind cordons.
Theyll get it in higher definition
this time, take all the takes
they need, apply the make-up
to Pearses squint expertly,
photoshop Dev in
if the director requires.
Extras lounge about,
drift in and out of collonades,
wander further afield,
tall skinnies in hand.
But Croppys Acre is padlocked.
The Corpo turned the key
when the citizens started
bedding down there, sharing
sleeping bags and needles,
messing up the view.
Right now, two of them frisk a third
who hasnt moved for hours:
still-life, ready
for his close-up.
Cut in to Romantic Ireland
blue-inked on his wrist.
pg. 139

Mormntul lui OLeary
Se filmeaz din nou
Insurecia la Muzeul Collins Barracks.
Rulotele albe ateapt aliniate,
voluntarii stau n ordine la rnd
la mas, corabia Asgard este ancorat
n siguran ntr-o zon protejat.
Vor filma n HD
de data aceasta, oricte duble
va trebui, figura nedefinit a lui Pearse
va fi machiat cu pricepere,
iar chipul lui Dev va fi schimbat n photoshop
dac aa va vrea regizorul.
Dublurile se odihnesc pe unde-apuc,
apar i dispar dup coloane,
se plimb pe cmp,
cu blugii mulai n mn.
Dar monumentul Croppys Acre este izolat i ncuiat.
Autoritile au ntors cheia n broasc
atunci cnd cetenii au nceput
s doarm acolo folosind aceiai
saci de dormit i aceleai ace,
stricnd privelitea.
Chiar acum, doi dintre ei l zguduie pe al treilea
care nu s-a micat de ore n ir:
natur moart, pregtit
pentru prim-planurile cu el.
Perfect pentru Irlanda romantic,
dat cu cerneal albastr pe ncheietura minii.
pg. 140
Noel Duffy
Elena Daniela Radu
Noel Duffy studied Experimental
Physics at Trinity College Dublin. After
a brief period in research he turned to
writing and went on to co-edit (with
Theo Dorgan) Watching the River
Flow: A Century in Irish Poetry (Poetry
Ireland, 1999). His work has
appeared widely in journals and
newspapers in Ireland and beyond
(including The Irish Times, Poetry
Ireland Review and The Financial Times) and have been broadcast on
RT Radio 1 and BBC Radio 4. His debut collection In the Library of Lost
Objects was published in 2011 by Ward Wood Publishing, London, and
was shortlisted for The Strong Award for Best First Collection by an
Irish Poet. His second collection On Light & Carbon followed in 2013. A
third collection Summer Rain was published in summer 2016, again
with Ward Wood.
Noel Duffy a studiat Fizica Experimental la Colegiul Trinity din Dublin.
Dup o perioad de timp n care a desfurat activitate de cercetare, s-a
rentors la scris i a continuat s co-editeze mpreun cu Theo Dorgan,
volumul Privind cum curge rul: un secol de poezie irlandez publicat de
Poetry Ireland n 1999. Opera sa este publicat n mod curent n reviste
i ziare din Irlanda i nu numai, inclusiv n The Irish Times, Poetry
Ireland Review i The Financial Times, i a fost i este prezentat la RT
Radio 1 i BBC Radio 4. Colecia sa de debut, intitulat n biblioteca unde
se afl obiecte pierdute, a fost publicat n 2011 de ctre Ward Wood
Publishing, Londra, i a fost inclus pe lista lucrrilor care au concurat
n competiia pentru obinerea premiului The Strong Award for Best
First Collection by an Irish Poet. n 2013, a urmat a doua colecie, Despre
lumin i carbon. A treia colecie intitulat Ploaie de var, a fost
publicat n vara anului 2016, tot la editura Ward Wood.
pg. 141
Noel Duffy translation by: Elena Daniela Radu

Baltic Amber
Suspended in a bead of amber the ant
dreams itself to perfection, caught
as the bark bled its juices and the resin hardened
in the afternoon heat of the Palaeolithic.
And so it is frozen there, its antennae
raised in some final gesture
of fright and sacrifice, its tiny insect eyes
magnified and looking out to where
I face it on the page: emblem and lifeline
of all that perishes, all that survives.
Ambr baltic
Furnica, suspendat ntr-o mrgic de ambr,
se viseaz n drum spre desvrire, prins
acolo la revrsarea sevei cnd a sngerat scoara de copac i rina a
mpietrit
ntr-o dup-amiaz torid n Paleolitic.
i-aa a ngheat ea acolo, ridicndu-i
antenele ntr-o ultim micare
de groaz i sacrificiu, ai crei ochiori de insect
s-au mrit privind afar aici unde
eu i dau chip pe pagin: simbol i fir salvator
pentru toate cele care pier, pentru toate cele care vor dinui.
pg. 142

On Light & Carbon
Where did it come from,
the tree? I asked.
It came up from the ground,
the teacher said.
I believed him.
Later in a book I read
that it also grew in from the air,
the light trapping the carbon
from the atmosphere
and nailing it to each leaf
in turn through photosynthesis.
I was surprised.
Where did it come from,
the world? I asked.
It was born of Gods
Mercy and Love, the priest said.
I trusted him.
Later on TV I saw
that it was made of stardust,
the elements scattered
through the heavens in supernova
to gather in a ball of light and fire
that gave us each our lives.
I was spell-bound.
pg. 143

Despre lumin i carbon
De unde a rsrit el,
copacul?, am ntrebat eu.
A rsrit din pmnt,
a spus profesorul.
i eu l-am crezut.
Am citit dup aceea ntr-o carte
c poate s prind rdcini i din aer,
cnd lumina absoarbe carbonul
din atmosfer
i l prinde de fiecare frunz
pe rnd, prin fotosintez.
M-am mirat.
De unde a venit
lumea?, am ntrebat eu.
S-a nscut prin Mila i Iubirea
lui Dumnezeu, a rspuns preotul.
L-am crezut.
Apoi, am vzut la televizor
c s-a format din praf stelar,
elemente cosmice risipite
n ceruri sub form de supernov
care s-au adunat ntr-o minge de lumin i foc
astfel primind via fiecare dintre noi.
Am rmas uluit.
pg. 144

The Pattern
I remember those evenings
when it was all action in the kitchen,
my mam and Aunt Angela
clearing away everything
then laying out a stretch of cloth
on the clean, wiped surface of the table.
Then they placed a piece of pattern
across the fabric, which looked like
grease-proof paper only covered in lines
(and to my childs eye like some kind of
schematic for a rocket or aeroplane)
as my mam followed the contours
with a white waxy chalk making marks
on the cloth before cutting carefully
along the dashed outline, each piece
in turn laid out across a chair, the shape
of a dress beginning to take form for
some neighbour or relative or friend.
I could never bear to watch though, when
all the parts had been gathered up
and my mam took to the sewing machine,
the needle hammering down so close
to her fingers that it scared me senseless,
she passing the fabric casually beneath it
without missing a stitch until
the dress was complete and a fitting
was finally arranged my mam
with pins in her mouth as she adjusted
the bust-line or hem, her work nearly done...
Tonight, I sit at another machine
pg. 145

and try weave a pattern for you, Mother,
these lines like those pieces of cloth laid out
and marked, then brought together
with the same patience and care (I hope)
as the dresses you made in this house,
to make a gown for you of words
that you may wear some cold winter
evening when your work is done
and the sewing machine stilled that
we may know each other
through such patterns made, the lines
of our lives connected like fine thread
and cloth, brought together finally
after years grown apart and the shared
understanding of our chosen crafts.
pg. 146

Tiparul
mi amintesc toate acele seri,
cnd buctria era plin de zarv
i mama i mtua Angela
strngeau masa
i aezau o bucat de pnz
pe tblia splat i curat.
Dup aceea potriveau pe acea bucat de postav
un tipar care prea a fi
un pergament plin de linii,
(i, copil fiind, mi se prea c seamn
cu planul unei rachete sau avion),
pe care mama desena conturul
cu o cret alb de croitorie, care lsa semne
pe pnz, nainte de a tia cu grij
maginea punctat; fiecare bucat
era aezat pe scaun, una dup alta, ncepnd s prind contur
forma unei rochii, croit pentru
o vecin, rud sau prieten.
Dar eu nu puteam suporta s privesc, dup ce
toate piesele erau adunate la un loc
i mama le ducea la maina de cusut,
acul care alerga n sus i-n jos ca un ciocnel, att de aproape
de degetele ei i m nnebunea de fric,
iar ea trecea uor pnza pe sub el
pg. 147

fr s scape vreo custur pn
la terminarea rochiei i programarea
unei probe mama mea
cu acele ntre buze aranjnd
talia sau tivul rochiei, aproape gata...
n aceast sear stau la o alt main de cusut
i ncerc s es un model pentu tine, mam,
aceste linii precum acele buci de pnz ntinse pe mas
i conturate, apoi adunate laolalt,
cu aceeai rbdare i grij (sper eu),
pentru rochiile croite de tine n aceast cas,
ca s creez o rochie din cuvinte numai pentru tine
pe care s o pori ntr-o sear friguroas
de iarn, dup ce ai terminat lucrul
i maina de cusut a tcut pentru ca
noi s ne recunoatem unul pe cellalt
dup aceste tipare i esturi, liniile
vieilor noastre legate precum aa cea mai fin
i pnza, adunate la un loc pn la urm
dup ani de zile de desprire cnd am neles
amndou meteugurile noastre alese.
pg. 148
Paul
Casey
traducerea de
/ translation
by: Elena
Daniela Radu
Paul Casey was born in Cork in 1968. He grew up between Ireland,
Zambia and South Africa and has worked in film, multimedia and
teaching. His second collection, Virtual Tides, was published by Salmon
Poetry in 2016. He has written and published poems in five languages,
appearing in journals and anthologies Internationally. A chapbook, Its
Not all Bad, appeared from The Heaventree Press in 2009. In 2010 he
completed a poetry-film, The Lammas Hireling, an interpretation of Ian
Duhigs iconic poem. His dbut collection is home more or less (Salmon
Poetry, 2012). In 2013 he was awarded a Cork City Council Artists
Bursary. He has recently had poems appear in The Irish Examiner,
Colony, The Pickled Body, Shamrock Haiku Journal, Southword, The
Penny Dreadful, Levure Littraire, Live Encounters, Fulcrum, Itaca and
Brain of Forgetting. He is poet in residence each May (for the Bealtaine
festival) at a number of elderly homes and he edits the annual
Unfinished Book of Poetry, featuring verse written by students from
Cork city schools. He teaches multimedia and creative writing courses
at the Cork College of Commerce and is the founder/director of the
Bhal poetry reading series at www.obheal.ie
Paul Casey s-a nscut n Cork, n 1968. i-a petrecut copilria n

Irlanda, Zambia i Africa de Sud. Cariera poetului s-a desfurat n
cinematografie, multimedia i educaie. A doua sa colecie
pg. 149
Paul Casey translation by: Elena Daniela Radu

de poeme, intitulat Maree Virtuale, a fost publicat de Editura Salmon
Poetry n 2016. Paul Casey a compus i a publicat poeme n cinci limbi
strine, att n reviste ct i n antologii la nivel internaional. Volumul
su Nu e totul pierdut, a aprut la Editura The Heaventree Press n 2009.
n 2010, poetul a realizat proiectul de poezie i film, Nimit la Festivalul
Recoltei, o interpretare a poemului emblematic al lui Ian Duhig. Colecia
sa de debut se intituleaz acas mai mult sau mai puin (Editura Salmon
Poetry, 2012). n 2013, a primit o burs oferit de ctre Consiliul
Artitilor din Oraul Cork. De curnd, i s-au publicat poeme n
publicaiile: The Irish Examiner, Colony, The Pickled Body, Shamrock
Haiku Journal, Southword, The Penny Dreadful, Levure Littraire, Live
Encounters, Fulcrum, Itaca i Brain of Forgetting. Paul Casey particip n
calitate de poet rezident n fiecare an, n luna mai, la Festivalul
Bealtaine, vizitnd un numr nsemnat de case de btrni i editeaz
anuarul intitulat Volumul de poezii neterminat, care cuprinde versuri
compuse de elevii colilor din oraul Cork. Poetul pred cursuri de
multimedia i scriere creativ la Colegiul de Comer din Cork i este
fondatorul/directorul serilor de lectur de poezie Bhal pe site-ul:
www.obheal.ie
pg. 150

Paper Stone Circles
stone turns to paper in her eye
as she filters cycles of light
into circles of paper stones
her eye is a stone circle
a near-infinity of light
that sees the circle as finite
the near-permanence of stone
the almost endless circle
is light, impermanent as paper
stone and white butterflies
circle and circle her
she questions their sentience
stone ancestors
paper-light circles
she sees them say
she hears their paper voices
say, know your own time
be light, circle, stone
pg. 151

Cercurile din hrtie i piatr
piatra se transform n hrtie n ochii ei
n vreme ce filtreaz momentele luminii
n cercuri de pietre din hrtie
ochii ei sunt cercuri din piatr
aproape-infinitul luminii
care percepe cercurile finite
aproape-continuumul pietrei
cercul aproape fr de sfrit
este lumin, nepermanent precum hrtia
piatr i fluturi albi
n cerc, n cerc n jurul ei
ea pune la ndoial sensibilitatea lor
strbunii din piatr
cercuri din hrtie-lumin
le vede rostind
le aude glasurile din hrtie
grind, v tii sorocul
fii lumin, cerc, piatr
pg. 152

The Speed of Cat's Eyes
His eco-ship purrs silver-smooth
past shores of bastard-amber stars,
chases the veined twist of tail-lights,
long spaces poised for sudden red.
Earth's skin, spinning culture
at past the speed of sound
around its centre, skims the sun
many thousand miles per hour more.
He turns up his thoughts in stereo lick the cream from these lips honey sees movement from the passenger seat,
a reason to steer with his knees.
He stirs honey into chamomile,
skins up, scribbles a quatrain ending
no hands, see? Her mirage smile,
her eyes that flicker. Her invisible fur.
pg. 153

Iueala din ochii pisicii
Eco-vaporul lui toarce argintiu-mtsos
dincolo de malurile stelelor hibride-din-ambr,
vneaz vrtejul venos al cozilor-lumin,
spaii lungi aezate pentru a roi spontan.
Crusta pmntului, cultura centrifug
dincolo de viteza sunetului
n jurul miezului su, scruteaz soarele
multe mii de mile pe or i mai mult.
El i acordeaz gndurile stereo limpie smntna de pe aceste buze mieroase observ micarea de pe scaunul de lng ofer,
are ocazia s vireze cu genunchii.
El amestec mierea n mueel,
cojete ceva, schieaz ncheierea catrenului
fr mini, vezi? nchipuirea ei zmbete,
ochii ei care licresc. Blana ei invizibil.
pg. 154

kudzu
Barely perceptible, it began at the window
frames, padding its broad leaves like moss
across the non stop-motion, bonsai forest floor
light greening to peripheral mist, eyes
consumed by pc screen, oblivious. Weeks streak
by as the low susurrus, virus-rustle covers
radio, bookshelves, printer and bonsai
a gradual stanglehold on the whole supply.
As it reaches the lip of the cold coffee cup, it takes
a while to find I cannot pry myself from the desk.
I watch as the forest of undergrowth
constricts like rhododendron my calves, binds
all below waist to the floor. Im stranded.
Android just out of reach, not upgraded
to the robotic, limbed version in time. Voice
activation windows have all passed by. Roots
have plunged into every digital and organic
crevice. This is my final squeeze of art.
pg. 155

Planta kudzu
Abia perceptibil, a aprut la marginea
ferestrei, i ntinde frunzele late precum muchiul de copac
strbtnd n micare non-stop, solul pdurii de bonsai
lumineaz de la verde pn la cea periferic, ochii
mistuii de ecranul pc-ului, fr amintiri. Sptmnile se strecoar
precum un susur blnd, fonetul-virus acoper
radioul, rafturile de cri, imprimanta i bonsai
o ngrmdire gradat de obiecte adunate.
Cnd atinge buza ceaca rece de cafea, i trebuie
un timp s i dea seama c nu m pot dezlipi de la birou.
Privesc pdurea de arbuti
crndu-se precum rododendronul pe gambele mele, legndu-m
strns de sub talie pn la podea. Sunt izolat.
Android la care nu poi ajunge, nu l poi perfeciona
n robot, varianta cu membre actualizat. Ferestrele
activate de voce s-au dus cu toatele. Rdcinile
s-au cufundat n toate crevasele digitale
i organice. Aceasta este ultima mea istovire de art.
pg. 156
Roisin Kelly
traducerea de /
translation by: Elena
Daniela Radu
Roisin Kelly is an Irish

poet who was born in
Belfast and raised in Co.
Leitrim. After a year on a remote island, and an MA in Writing at the
National University of Ireland, Galway, she found her way to Cork City
where she currently lives and writes. Her poems have appeared
in Poetry Chicago, The Timberline Review, The Irish Literary Review,
Synaesthesia, Aesthetica, The Penny Dreadful, Bare Fiction, The
Baltimore Review, Banshee, The Butchers Dog, Poethead, and Best New
British and Irish Poets (Eyewear 2016). In 2016 she was selected along
with eleven other poets for the Poetry Ireland Introductions Series, as
part of which she will read at the International Literature Festival
Dublin. Other festivals at which she has been a guest reader include the
Cork International Poetry Festival and Listowel Writers Week. In
summer 2016 she will be published as The Stinging Flys featured poet.
Roisin Kelly este poet irlandez, care s-a nscut n Belfast i a crescut
n Comitatul Leitrim. Dup un an petrecut pe o insul ndeprtat, a
absolvit Masteratul de Compunere la Universitatea Naional a Irlandei,
Galway. i-a gsit menirea n oraul Cork, unde locuiete i compune n
prezent. Poeziile sale au aprut n Poetry Chicago, The Timberline
Review, The Irish Literary Review, Synaesthesia, Aesthetica, The Penny
Dreadful, Bare Fiction, The Baltimore Review, Banshee, The Butchers
Dog, Poethead i Best New British and Irish Poets publicat la Editura
Eyewear n 2016. n 2016, poeta a fost aleas, alturi de ali unsprezece
poei, s participe la Seria de introduceri pentru poezia irlandez, unde
va lectura scrieri la Festivalul Internaional de Literatur din Dublin. A
pg. 157
Roisin Kelly translation by: Elena Daniela Radu

mai participat i la alte festivaluri n calitate de lector invitat, cum ar fi,
Festivalul international de poezie din Cork i Sptmna Scriitorilor din
oraul Listowel. n vara anului 2016, poeta va fi publicat pe prima
pagin a revistei de literatur, The Stinging Fly.
pg. 158

The Aran Islands
I first saw it as a child
that immensity of light and shadow
light on tinfoil-crumpled sea
would take no man as husband
from that day on, would marry only
the cold shifting mass
that froze me where I stood
until it vanished with the day
I felt your kiss, was driven
over the west horizon
of my life where I no longer soared
through light-streams
but how long does sweetness last?
Love is a bright patch
chased swiftly on by shadows
and the pulse of red light stirs
wakes itself to darkness
and unseen ships.
pg. 159

Insulele Aran
Am vzut-o prima dat n copilrie,
o imensitate de lumini i umbre,
lumin pe marea de staniol mototolit,
nu va mai accepta niciun brbat de so
din ziua aceea, se va cstori doar
cu masa rece n micare,
care m-a ngheat unde am rmas,
pn cnd a disprut odat cu ziua
n care i-am simit srutul, am fost aruncat
peste linia orizontului, nspre apusul
vieii mele, unde nu mai simeam durerea,
prin uvoaie de lumin,
dar ct va mai dura tandreea?
Iubirea este un petec de lumin
urmat fr oprire de umbre,
iar lumina roie care pulseaz, se frmnt,
ntunericul o trezete,
i corbiile nevzute.
pg. 160

The Princess
On her sixteenth birthday she says goodbye
to her royal parents,
detaches the stiff plea of fingers
from her wrists.
As she begins to run, her golden gown
is shed, as are rings, bracelets,
the tiara from her head.
Naked, she flies
by lords and ladies who make no move
to stop herbut, thinking
of her parents sorrow, stoop to gather
those cast-off robes
and jewels: fuel
for tomorrows pyre.
She is gone to the wooded valley,
its path of fallen leaves.
In a starless dusk she comes
to railway tracks, and lays herself across them;
shudders with delight
at her breasts coldness even now.
Colder soon, and how the mourners
will grieve, yet tremble
with a strange desire!
She longs for a gun barrel between her lips,
for her eyes to reflect
two Jupiters at the last. Waiting
for the lonely whistle-blast,
the light at the bend,
she lies paralysed with joy in this fulfilment
of a right to die
at a time of her own choosing.
pg. 161

Prinesa
Este a aizecea ei aniversare i i ia rmas bun
de la prinii ei regali,
i desprinde ncheieturile minilor
din strnsoarea ngheat a degetele care implor.
Ea o ia la fug, rochia aurie
i cade la pmnt, la fel inelele, brrile
i tiara de pe frunte.
Neacoperit, ea trece n zbor
pe lng lorzii i doamnele care nu ncearc
s o opreasc dar, cu gndul la
durerea prinilor ei, acetia se apleac s adune
hainele aruncate la ntmplare
i giuvaerurile: hrana
rugului de a doua zi.
Ea a plecat n valea mpdurit,
pe crarea de frunze czute.
n noaptea fr stele, ea ajunge
la inele de cale ferat i se ntinde peste linii;
se nfioar de plcere
cnd simte rceala snilor ei chiar i acum.
Curnd va fi i mai rece i tremur de dorina neobinuit
gndindu-se cum vor jeli
persoanele ndoliate!
i-ar dori o eav de puc ntre buze,
pentru ca ochii ei s reflecte
doi luceferi pn n ultima clip. Ateptnd
singurul suflu uiertor,
lumina de la cotitura drumului,
st ntins paralizat de bucuria mplirii
dreptului de a muri
n clipa aleas de ea.
pg. 162

The Red Caf
In the city of my mind
you are the red-painted caf
we find down a darkened side street.
Faux-French shutters thrown open
to a non-existent sun.
Plastic chequered tablecloths.
Glass jars of pungent teas
lined up in rows.
Your knife pauses
in its slow spread of butter
as I lean in to taste your lips
below a black-and-white picture
Paris, 1950, The Kiss.
Here, the windows glow past midnight.
Here, I can wipe doubt
from your eyes.
I can make it snow outside.
Soft and silent
like a drift of blank pages settling
into streets
and narrow fissures.
pg. 163

Cafeneaua roie
n oraul din mintea mea,
tu eti cafeneaua vopsit n rou,
pe care o gsim ntmpltor pe o alee ntunecat.
Obloanele false sunt deschise la perete
s intre soarele non-existent.
Fee de mas din muama, n carouri.
Borcane din sticl aliniate unul lng cellalt,
n care sunt ceaiuri cu miros neptor.
Cuitul tu se oprete
n micarea lent de ntindere a untului pe pine,
cnd m aplec s simt gustul buzelor tale
sub o poz n alb i negru Paris, 1950, Srutul.
Uite, lumina trece prin ferestre i aprinde ntunericul.
Uite, am reuit s i ndeprtez ndoiala
din ochi.
Pot chema ninsoarea afar.
Moale i tcut
precum troienele din paginile nescrise aternndu-se
pe strzi
i n crpturile nguste.
pg. 164
BlackJack
Afric McGlinchey - translation by dr. Isabel Lazr .........................10
Alan Patrick Traynor - translation by Maria Liana Chibacu.............16
Billy Ramsel - translation by Margento ........................................23
Breda Wall Ryan - translation by Elena Daniela Radu ...................30
Christine Murray - translation by Elena Daniela Radu ...................42
Damian Smyth - translation by Mdlina Dncu ..........................49
David Butler - translation by Mihaela Ioni .................................57
Dean James Browne - translation by dr. Isabel Lazr ....................62
Edward ODwyer - translation by Elena Daniela Radu ..................67
Eileen Sheehan - translation by Oana Lungu ................................80
Eleanor Hooker - translation by dr. Isabel Lazr ............................91
Eugene OConnell - translation by Elena Daniela Radu ..................96
John W. Sexton - translation by dr. Isabel Lazr ......................... 101
Leeane Quinn - translation by dr. Isabel Lazr ............................ 111
Maeve OSullivan - translation by dr. Isabel Lazr ....................... 118
Mary ODonnell - translation by dr. Isabel Lazr ......................... 125
Nessa OMahony - translation by Elena Daniela Radu ................. 133
Noel Duffy - translation by Elena Daniela Radu ........................... 141
Paul Casey - translation by Elena Daniela Radu ........................... 149
Roisin Kelly - translation by Elena Daniela Radu.......................... 157
pg. 165
pg. 166
pg. 167
BlackJack
by
Itaca Magazine
Tiprit cu sprijinul financiar al Organizaiei PNL Irlanda

Printed with the finnancial support of PNL Organization Ireland
pg. 168

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Revista Itaca Dublin

Editura Singur Romnia

Tehnoredactare / Techno drafting by Dorina iu

Copyright The Authors, Ireland, 2016

Printed in Romania by Singur Publishing

Dorim s mulumim tuturor celor care, printr-o cinstit munc

We wish to thank all those who, through an honest volunteer

This product was developed in literary soul to soul, therefore it

Afric McGlinchey is an award-winning Irish poet with strong African

Afric McGlinchey translation by: dr. Isabel Lazr

Afric McGlinchey translation by: dr. Isabel Lazr

Afric McGlinchey translation by: dr. Isabel Lazr

Afric McGlinchey translation by: dr. Isabel Lazr

Afric McGlinchey translation by: dr. Isabel Lazr

Alan Patrick Traynor is a

Alan Patrick Traynor translation by: dr. Maria Liana Chibacu

Alan Patrick Traynor translation by: dr. Maria Liana Chibacu

Alan Patrick Traynor translation by: dr. Maria Liana Chibacu

Alan Patrick Traynor translation by: dr. Maria Liana Chibacu

Nor Behan's shadow there

Alan Patrick Traynor translation by: dr. Maria Liana Chibacu

Nici urm de Behan aici

Alan Patrick Traynor translation by: dr. Maria Liana Chibacu

Behan poet renumit n Irlanda

Billy Ramsell translation by: Margento

Billy Ramsell translation by: Margento

Billy Ramsell translation by: Margento

Billy Ramsell translation by: Margento

Billy Ramsell translation by: Margento

Billy Ramsell translation by: Margento

Breda Wall Ryan From rural

Breda Wall Ryan translation by: Elena Daniela Radu

Breda Wall Ryan translation by: Elena Daniela Radu

Breda Wall Ryan translation by: Elena Daniela Radu

Breda Wall Ryan translation by: Elena Daniela Radu

Breda Wall Ryan translation by: Elena Daniela Radu

Breda Wall Ryan translation by: Elena Daniela Radu

Breda Wall Ryan translation by: Elena Daniela Radu

Breda Wall Ryan translation by: Elena Daniela Radu

Breda Wall Ryan translation by: Elena Daniela Radu

Breda Wall Ryan translation by: Elena Daniela Radu

Breda Wall Ryan translation by: Elena Daniela Radu

Christine Murray is an Irish born

Christine Murray translation by: Elena Daniela Radu

Christine Murray translation by: Elena Daniela Radu

Christine Murray translation by: Elena Daniela Radu

Christine Murray translation by: Elena Daniela Radu

Christine Murray translation by: Elena Daniela Radu

Christine Murray translation by: Elena Daniela Radu

"Damian Smyths five collections

Damian Smith translation by: Mdlina Dncu

Damian Smith translation by: Mdlina Dncu

Damian Smith translation by: Mdlina Dncu

Damian Smith translation by: Mdlina Dncu

Damian Smith translation by: Mdlina Dncu

Damian Smith translation by: Mdlina Dncu

Damian Smith translation by: Mdlina Dncu

A former lecturer in English and Spanish literature, David Butler

David Butler translation by: Mihaela Ioni

David Butler translation by: Mihaela Ioni

David Butler translation by: Mihaela Ioni

David Butler translation by: Mihaela Ioni