Ní bhíonn ‘fhios agat ó lá go lá céard a tharlóidh anseo. An deireadh seachtaine agus rogha agam dul ag an bpictiúrlann nó ag The Wilde Thistle, café i gCathair Culver. Bhí The Brilliant Gypsies le seinm ann agus ní bheinn in ann dul go screening leo i mí Iúil mar bheinn in Éirinn arís. Bheith i mo shuí i bpictiúrlann ag éisteacht le Béarla nó ag damhsa lena gceol? Éasca. Bhuail mé an bóthar go Culver.
Chuir mé spéis sa ghrúpa don chéad uair nuair a chuala mé leagan Peter Romano de Caledonia ag an Celtic Arts Center. Chuir mé aithne ar a ghrúpa The Brilliant Gypsies ar an seit de Full Circle, clár teilifíse. Anuraidh nuair a bhíomar ann shéid gáir dhóiteáin is amach linn uilig. Taobh amuigh den stuideó ansin bhí seans againn damhsa a thaispeáin don slua aisteoirí a bhí ag fanacht thart. Sheinn na Brilliant Gypsies faoi na miasa satailíte is rinneamar damhsa. Bhí sé ait agus foirfe ag an am céanna. Lá fíoraisteach. Istigh ar an seit bhí mé ag caointeoireacht do charactar i ndráma agus ag damhsa le Terry O Quinn (Locke ó Lost) agus cúpla uair ina dhiaidh bhí mé ar eitleán ó LAX ar an mbealach go hÉirinn le slán a rá le mo Dhaid (mhair sé bld).
So. Seans bualadh le seanchairde ag an gcafé roimh dhul abhaile dom go hÉirinn arís. B’í Erin a chuir fáile mór romham ann. Bean óg álainn le spéis aici i gCéilithe. Bhí Aedan ann, rinceoir eile, ceoltóirí, daoine nua agus fonn orthu go léir bheith ag damhsa leis an gceol. Is sin a rinneamar. Ag múineadh na buncéimeanna do na daoine nua amuigh ar an gcosán: do Paul ón Fhrainc agus d’Afton. Bhí na céimeanna ag Afton i nóiméad amháin. Rinne tú é seo cheana, ar mé léi. Ní dhearna, ar sí. A, rinceoir! ar mé liom féin. Coinnigh súil uirthi siúd. Mé ag smaoineamh ar fhoireann a chur le chéile.
Ballaí Luimní déanta. Suim spreagtha sa café agus daoine nua ag iarraidh damhsaí a fhoghlaim. Cuirfidh mé Erin i gceannas ar sin. Thóg Paul ón Fhrainc fidil amach is sheinn sí ríleanna leis an ngrúpa. Ní rabhamar ag súil leis sin. Bhí sé an-mhaith. Ansin thóg Afton clár adhmaid amach a chaith sí ar an urlár is thosaigh an draíocht. Cultúr amháin agus cultúr eile ag teacht le chéile i bhfusion LA i gcafé: bronntanas inesperado. Bhuel anois. Caithfidh mé an taithí sin a roinnt libh.
Réalt nua ag ár ngrúpa. Seo chugaibh Afton Leigh:
Seo í arís
Ealaín ar an mballa sa chúlra ó lead a sheineann le grúpa eile thart anseo. The Praties atá orthu siúd.
Tá grá na todhchaí ag cothú ceoil san aer.
Ar urlár damhsa, ár mbróg le rithim shaor.
An ceol ag preabadh ár gcroíthe ag bualadh go sámh.
Urlár anois folamh ach táimid lámh le lámh.
I rith na hoíche, tá tú mar splanc thintrí, is tú mo ghrá geal, is tú mo…
Tada uaim ach, go mbeidh tú liom, go mbeidh tú liom.
Tá grá na todhchaí ag cothú ceoil san aer.
Inné gus inniu na cuimhní ag titim siar.
Sa tsráid ag rince, na réaltaí ag lonradh leo.
Do lámh le mo lámh san oíche táimid beo.
An grá, ag fanacht ort féin.
An grá, ag fanacht, tá a fhios ‘at, ag fanacht, ort féin, ort féin, tá fhios ‘at go mbeidh mé a’ fanacht.
Tá grá na todhchaí ag cothú ceoil san aer.
Ar urlár damhsa, ár mbróg le rithim shaor.
Tada uaim ach…do lámh le mo lámh san oíche táimid beo.
An grá, ag fanacht ort féin.
An grá, ag fanacht, tá a fhios ‘at, ag fanacht, ort féin, ort féin, tá fhios ‘at go mbeidh mé ag fanacht.
De shíor ag fanacht.
Tá grá na todhchaí ag cothú ceoil san aer.
Ar urlár damhsa, ár mbróg le rithim shaor.
Tá grá na todhchaí ag cothú ceoil san aer.
Ort féin, tá a fhios ‘at go mbeidh mé ag fanacht.
Tá grá na todhchaí ag cothú ceoil san aer.
Inné gus inniu na cuimhní ag titim siar.
Tá grá na todhchaí ag cothú ceoil san aer.
Ort féin, tá a fhios ‘at go mbeidh mé ag fanacht.
Bhí an rang Gaeilge thart san Celtic Arts Center, na scrúdaithe ceartaithe, teastaisí tugtha amach, bualadh bos buailte is arán baile ite. Dul siar sciobtha ar litriú: fada is leathan le leathan srl. Is bhí sé in am dul anuas.
Thosaigh sé le ceol. Na ceoltóirí sa chúinne ag seinm gan stró. Bíonn siad ann i gcónaí. Ag seinm leo go nádúrtha. Is tháinig Tadhg le caint liom. Féadfaidh mé Amhrán Maoínse a chasadh duit, ar sé. Is chas. Is mhíníomar an brí leis. Is ansin chuireamar fáilte le daoine is fágadh fúmsa an lament thíos a léamh amach. Bhí gá leis. Amantaí ní thuigeann daoine go bhfuil orainn caint thríd, casadh thríd, smaoineamh thríd. Le chéile. Mar sin léigh mé é:
Lament For Berkeley
le Joseph O Connor
There was going to be a party. Calls and texts went around. Messages on Facebook. Conversations.
You were to ask that guy from Dublin. And I’d ask that girl from Laois. And if anyone wanted to bring along a friend, that would be grand. No problem.
We’re Irish. We stick together, when we encounter each other far from home. Back in Ireland, we might have all sorts of issues with each other, as any family does, from time to time. Abroad, it’s different. Abroad, we’re a family. The affinities are clearer. They’re low-key important.
It was only meant to be a party.
Not a goodbye.
A night beneath the harvest moon of California, when the world was young, and the hopes were younger, still. Because hope is a currency to the young.
And they spend it without stodgy care. They don’t have mortgages or taxes. They don’t care about the plight of the euro, or Greece, or recession, or newspaper headlines. Why would they?
They know, because they’re intelligent and smart and educated, the best generation we ever had, the pride of all our hopes, the projection of our better and wised-up, post-recession selves, that all that stuff is important and meaningful and significant. But they know it’s nothing but bullshit, too.
They have a celestially important treasure that the middle-aged don’t have any more: the hope of all of us who were ever away from home for the first time.
Young. At a party.
Where music was playing.
To be 21 and with your pals. Is there any better feeling? To look out at the stars, and to think, for one fleeting, miraculous moment, that you could stir them around in the sky.
They didn’t know that what would happen would fracture the heart of a whole nation.
They’d probably be amazed if they did.
Twenty-one, at a party, on the other side of the world, you don’t expect that the flags of your country will tomorrow morning be flying at half mast for you.
You never met the President, but he’ll be going to your memorial Mass. You never met the Taoiseach; he’ll be saying your name. People who never heard of you will be shattered by your going.
We in Ireland are connected by a kind of underground water. It’s the strangest thing about us. We care. More than that, that every mother and father in your country will happen to glance at your photograph on the front pages of the newspapers, in garages and newsagents and a hundred other places, and will find themselves weeping, silently, on stepping back into the car and will try to get it together, and will find the powerful grief strange.
They’ll say to themselves, through real tears, as they drive away into all that morning holds: ‘That could have been my child, the greatest blessing in my whole life, the reality that gives my life meaning.’
We’re a small, tight-knit country. When hurt comes, it hurts.
Writers and poets will be asked to make some sense of it. But no one will be able. They’ll try. But it can’t be put into words.
The single, most unspeakable thing that can happen to any parent doesn’t have a couplet of poetry commensurate with the grief.
Shakespeare doesn’t have it. Heaney doesn’t have it. Nobody does. It’s not sayable.
And all we can do in the face of such cruelty, is to hold our own children, to love one another while we still have the chance.
The teenager you’re finding difficult: love him. He’s precious. The baby you held in your hands yesterday and who now seems impossible: love her. She’s the best you’ll ever be.
Because there aren’t the words. There will never be the words.
There is only what remains when all the words are uttered, the faintest, most brittle possibility of love.
Bhí chuile dhuine ag éisteach. Cén fáth nach mbeadh siad mar bhí focail O’Connor cumhachtach! Dúirt sé a bhíomar uilig ag iarraidh a rá.
Chas na ceoltóirí arís. D’iarr mé ar dhaoine rudaí a dhéanamh. Léigh Ramona amach eolas faoi bheirt nár mhair. Luaigh Tadhg na daoine atá fós tinn is ghuíomar biseach luath orthu. Chas Seán The Wind that Shakes the Barley. Is chuala faoin bheirt eile. Sheas is chas duine eile is chualamar faoi bheirt eile is chasamar uilig She Moves Through The Fair. Bhí Mná na hÉireann, Raglan Road, Amazing Grace srl ann is dán is cairdeas. Faoiseamh nó síocháin ionainn. Labhair Seán amach faoi Charleston, bail ó Dhia air, is bhí tost ann dóibh ar fad a chailleamar. Is lean na scéalta, amhráin is ceol ar aghaidh. Bhí daoine ag siúl thart ag caint le feiceáil go rabhamar uilig ceart. Ag deireadh na hoíche le The Parting Glass, bhíomar ar bhealach.
Ag tiomáint abhaile dom anocht bhí an ghealach íseal, mór, leath ite ag an dorchadas. Smaoinigh mé ar an Harvest Moon sin seachtain amháin roimhe.
Beidh fís anseo roimh i bhfad lcd. Go dtí sin, seo cuid de na hamhráin a chasamar:
D’Eimear Walshe
D’Eoghan Culligan
Do Niccolai Schuster
D’Olivia Burke
Do Lorcan Miller
D’Ashley Donohue
Síocháin, a chairde. Ar scáth a chéile a mhairimid.
I mBerkeley, California, go luath ar maidin inniu 16/06/2015 thit balcóin go talamh. Fuair seisear a bhí ar an mbalcóin sin bás agus tá seachtar eile gortaithe go dona. Éireannaigh uilig iontu a bhí ag ceiliúradh breithlá 21. Is anocht tá croíthe briste.
Conas scríobh faoi? Bhí siad ró-óg? Cinnte. Ach ní leor sin.
Seisear marbh inniu a bhí beo inné. Seachtar i gcruachás in oispidéil i bhfad ó bhaile.
Tuismitheoirí, dearthaireacha, deirfiúracha ag ceannach ticéidí le dul go Meiriceá le fáil amach an mairfidh duine nó le slán a rá. Turas fada i suíochán ar eitleán ag smaoineamh ar sin.
An iomarca. An iomarca d’éinne ar an domhan seo, duine chomh hóg sin a chailleadh.
Ní leor ‘timpiste’ a chur air ach sin a bhí ann. B’fhéidir. Seans go mbeidh ‘faillí‘ air as seo amach más críonlobhadh is cúis leis.
Tragóid mar sin? Ní leor an focal sin ach oiread.
Conas a chur in iúl an phian do thuismitheoirí?
Ní féidir liom. Teipeann orm. Níl teanga ar an domhan in ann an buile don chroí is anam seo a léiriú i gceart.
Scaoil amach na deora, bí feargach, bí cráite, lig scread. Déan a chaithfidh tú a dhéanamh is faigh sólás cibé áit inar féidir leat mar tá saolta lán le grá agus dóchas goidthe uainn róluath.
Maith acu as an ngrá a roinn siad le daoine ina seal ar an saol seo.
A rí na gile, a rí na gréine, a rí na reann, a rí na réalta,
A rí na cruinne, a rí na spéire: is álainn do ghnúis, a léas aoibheann.
8:40 MB ►F: Samhainn. Chaidh uir air sùil Odhrain. Samhain. Chuaigh an domhan thar súil Odhrain.
20:20: Sassanach Sasanach
44:25 M ►C: Trobhad! Tar!
45:08 A’ Mhurchaidh A Mhurchaidh
Creag an Dùin Carraig na nDúin
Caileag Shassanach Cailín Shasanach
An do ghoid thu i às a leapaidh , a bhalaich? Ar ghoid tú as a leaba í, a mhac?
46:59: Taing dhut. Go raibh maith agat.
45:08 Dè thug thu i-stach a-nis, a Mhurchaidh? Céard a thóg tú isteach anois, a Mhurcaidh?
48:15 J: Taing Dhia! Buíochas le Dia!
51:00 J►C: Seo, a-nis. Seo anois.
51:18 D►G: Trobhad Tar
52:49 J►C: Clach a’ Choillich Cloch an Choiligh
54:07 J►G: Tulach Ard! Tulach Ard! (Glaoch)
56:53 J►G: Slàinte mhath Sláinte
58:53 J►C: Tha mi gasta. Tá mé iontach.
Clár 2:
4:06 MF ►G: Sin sibh! Sin sibh! Sin sibh! Sin sibh!
14:46 J►C: A’ ghràidh. A ghrá.
31:27 MF: Mo chreach ‘s a thàinig. Mo chreach is mar a tháinig sé. (Ochón)
33:07 J►H: Gabh air do shocair, a ghràidh. Gabh air go socair, a ghrá. (Tóg go bog é, a ghrá.)
33:18 AA► J: A’ leisgean òglaich. A óglaigh leisciúil.
37:25 J►AA: A’ bhodach. A bhodach
45:54 J ►Clm: Stadaibhh a-nis. Stadaigí anois.
46:35 J: Agus geall crìochnachadh air an fheasgar bhrèatha seo. Agus geallaim críochnú ar an tráthnóna breá seo.
46:48 Clm ►J: Seumas Ruadh. Séamas Rua.
46:58 J ► Clm: Ràibeart Ráibeart
Dùirn Doirn
Strac Stropa
Clár 3
* 18:07 Letitia ►Hamish: Seinn tu air Cas dhó
* 18:10 Clm►Gu bràth Go deo
42:47 J►GlsL: Mòran taing dhut. Go raibh maith agat.
43:56 J► lead óg: A’ bhalaich, A mhac
51:20 J►C: Caileag nam Mìorbhail Cailín na Míorúilt
1:18
Bean Tighearna Bhail’ ‘n Athain
The Lady of Baile an Àthain (the Town of the Small Ford)
1.
“‘S mise bean Tighearna Bhail’ ‘n Athain
“I am the lady of Baile An Àthain.
Tha na Sìth air mo ghoid a-rithist, a-risthist,”
The folk have stolen me again, again,”
Tha mar g’eill gach clach ga ràdh.
it is as if every stone is saying.
2.
Gu h-obann an sin, dhorchnaidh an oidhch’
Suddenly then, the night darkened
‘S chualas fuaim àrd mar thàirneanach
And I heard a loud noise like thunder
‘S thàinig a’ ghealach a-mach
And the moon came out
Fo sgàil nan neòil.
From the shadow of the clouds.
3.
‘S bhoillsg ì air a’ chaileig
And it shone on the damsel.
Bean Bhail ‘n Athain ì fhèin a bh’ann
It was the woman of Balnain herself that was there
‘Sgìth ‘s claoidht mar gun d’shiubhail i fada.
Weary and worn as she had walked far
Ach nach b’urrainn ins càite an robh i
But couldn’t tell where she was
No idir mar rinn i tighinn.
Or even how she came [there].
The words as Jamie explained them:
I am a woman of Balnain.
The folk have stolen me over again, ‘
the stones seemed to say.
I stood upon the hill, and wind did rise, and the sound of thunder rolled across the land.
I placed my hands upon the tallest stone
and traveled to a far, distant land
where I lived for a time among strangers who became lovers and friends.
But one day, I saw the moon came out
and the wind rose once more.
so I touched the stones
and traveled back to my own land
and took up again with the man I had left behind.
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.
Aistriúchán:
Pic thíos le Tom Bartel
Éireoidh is rachaidh mé anois; rachaidh go Inis Fraoigh,
Is tógfaidh mé bothán ann, as cré is caolach déanta;
Naoi línte pónairí ‘bheas ‘am ann, coirceog don bheach mheala,
Is mairfidh mé liom féin san réiteach beach-ghlórach.
Is beidh roinnt síocháná agam ann, mar tagann síocháin ag sileadh go mall,
Ag sileadh ó chaifirín na maidne go dtí an áit ina chasann cailleach na luatha;
Ansin bíonn meánoíche ina léaró solais uile is meánlae ina bhreo corcra,
Is an oíche lán le sciatháin na ngleoiseach.
Éireoidh mé is rachaidh mé anois mar i gcónaí oíche is ló
Cloisim lapadaíl uisce locha le fuaim íseal ar an gcladach;
Is mé im’ sheasamh ar an mbóthar, nó ar na cosáin liath,
I gceartlár domhain an chroí cloisim í.
