Bhíomar ag an aonach: Irish Fair LA don dara bhliain dúinn anois. Chonaiceamar feabhas mór ann i mbliana. Ardmholadh go gach duine a bhí ag obair ann. Laochra sibh! Moladh speisialta do Erin Scott Haines a chuir a croí isteach ann. Déarfainn nach dtarlódh an Aonach gan í.
Bhí ardáthas ar Chonradh na Gaeilge bheith ag cabhrú le Comhaltas i mbliana. Seo Debut Ceol na nAingeal agus beidh Craobh na nAingeal ag obair leo go minic mar sin comhaltas 😉 Ar an ardán acu bhí ranganna Gaeilge agus comórtaisí amhránaíochta, filíochta, agus scéalaíochta.
Le Céilí Rua (maith agaibh Gypsy Ethnic Arts Center as bheith linn), bhí muid ag múineadh Céilí agus Rince Seit. Chomh maith leis sin bhí rince na scuaibe againn. Maith thú Liana. Múinte: Ballaí Luimní, Soláiste na Bealtaine, Rince Mór na Tine, Baint an Fhéir. Le Tim Martin: Corofin Plain Set agus linn féin an Antrim Square Set. Múinte ag Aedan: rince ar an sean nós. Solos den scoth ó David agus Liana. Tá muid ag dul i gcleachtadh leis an stuf seo anois. Chomh bródúil sin as gach a rinne siad ar fad. Bhí na sluaite (idir óg agus aosta) thuas ag damhsa linn ar an stáidse agus d’airdigh sin mo chroí.
Le Joyce agus Maria, bhí Féasta Sráide againn agus d’fhoghlaim daoine conas bia a fháil as Gaeilge agus iad ag foghlaim Led’ thoil agus Go raibh maith agat. Iontach ar fad daoine a chloisteáil in áiteachaí eile ag an Aonach ag baint úsáid as an nGaeilge a d’fhoghlaim siad. Bua! Maith í Joyce a rinne arán agus bunnóga dúinn. Maith iad Sweeneys a thug bunnóga agus arán dúinn freisin.
Míle buíochas le Caoimhe as na leabhair ar fad a fuaireamar ag an deireadh!
Traocha fós inniu ach fíorshásta.
Grianghrafanna ag teacht isteach inniu. Seo tús leo
Tá ócáid mhór beagnach linn. Sin Aonach LA. Aonach Gaelach. Seo an dara bhliain dúinn ag an Aonach mar Chonradh na Gaeilge, Craobh na nAingeal & tá ardáthas orainn bheith ann arís an deireadh seachtaine seo chugainn. Fhad is atá na rinceoirí ag rince agus ceoltóirí ag déanamh ceoil agus idir na seiteanna beidh Féasta Sráide againn ag Aonach LA le Bliain na Gaeilge a cheiliúradh ag an Aonach. GRMA, Majella ón Oireachtas as an spreagadh!
Muid ag súil go mór leis!
Chomh maith leis sin, beidh Céilí Rua ag damhsa ag 2:30 ar an Satharn & ag 1:45 ar an Domhnach. Beidh ag damhsa agus ag múineadh damhsaí go mbeidh seans ag chuile dhuine bheith páirteach ann.
Freisin, beidh ranganna Gaeilge saor in aisce á reachtáil ag Conradh na Gaeilge, Craobh na nAingeal ag 3:45 ar an Satharn agus ag 3:00 ar an Domhnach
Tóir ar seo. Ná caill é!
Freisin beidh comórtaisí filíochta, scéalaíocht, agus amhránaíochta as Gaeilge ann ag 6:00in ar an Satharn agus ag 5:15in ar an Domhnach is muid ag comóradh mná uaisle na Gaeilge anseo i gCathair na nAingeal a d’imigh romhainn.
Chomh maith leis sin (sea, tuilleadh ann), beidh muid ag comhoibriú le grúpaí eile mar a mhúin Síne Nic an Ailí dúinn le Cultúr Club. Beidh muid ag díriú go háirithe ar Chomhaltas LA i mbliana. Seo rud a bhí ar ár liosta le fada. Bosca eile ticeáilte le debut Comhaltas LA, Ceol na nAingeal ag an Aonach. Beidh Céilí Rua ag cuidiú leo le rince seit agus Conradh na Gaeilge ag cuidiú leo leis na ranganna saor in aisce.
Mar sin, tagaigí agus bígí páirteach linn le Gaeilge, le bród, le bheith fíorGhaelach ☺ anseo i California Theas.
Seo amhrán a chuir ag caoineadh mé agus beagnach gach duine eile sa phictiúrlann nuair a chonaic mé Song of Granite le déanaí.
Ach cérbh é Lord Randall? Nuair a chloisim an t-ainm sin na laethanta seo, smaoiním ar an diabhal Black Jack Randall in Outlander.
Bhí bailéad leis an ainm sin fadó ó theorainn Shasana/Albain. Comhrá idir an tiarna óg is a mháthair atá ann. Thaisteal an t-amhrán. Tá bailéidí cosúil leis ar fud na hEorpa i go leor teangachaí: Gearmáinis, Danmhairgis, Magiarach (ón Ungair), Gaeilge, Sualannach, Uendis (Slavaic) agus Iodáilis ina measc. San leagan Iodáilis tugtar L’avvelenato (an fear ar tugadh nimh dó) nó Il testamento dell’avvelenato (tiomna an fhir ar tugadh nimh dó). Bhí leagan de leCamillo il Bianchino, i Verona i 1629.
An scéal
Filleann An Tiarna Randall abhaile, áit ina bhfuil a mháthair. Fiafraíonn a mháthair cad a tharla is faigheann sí amach gur thug leannán Randall nimh dó. San amhrán cloistear ar mhaith le Randall a dhéanamh len atá aige sa saol.
San leagan seo, míníonn Joe gur í deirfiúr Lord Randall atá ag cur na ceisteanna ar an bhfear atá ag fáil bháis. Is minic a deirtear ‘dearthairín’ nuair nach dearthair atá i gceist. Amantaí cara atá ann. Seans freisin gurb é a sheanmháthair atá á cheistiú, nó aintín leis.
Leagan de The Star of the County Down atá sa cheol anseo.
Míniú ar an scéal ina fhocail féin ag Joe Heaney:
[…] the story we had: that his newly-married wife that gave him an eel full of poison for his dinner. And that his sister was sitting by his bedside, asking him questions. Where were you all day? Cé raibh tú ó mhaidin, a dhearthairín, ó? And then, What will you leave your father? What will you leave your mother? What will you leave your brother? You know. What will you leave your wife? And he said, Ifreann mar dhúiche aice. Hell to be her land. Flaithis a bheith dúnta uirthi. Heaven to be closed to her.
And then he had two sons, according to this story, too. And she asked him, What will you leave your little sons?Hopping, he said from place to place, begging their food, he said, and ending up with the same way he said I’m dying now.He was bitter, and who wouldn’t be? And this is the way they used to sing it at home:
1. Cá raibh tú ó mhaidin, a dheartháirín, ó? Where have you been since morning, my little brother, oh?
‘S cá raibh tú ó mhaidin, a phlúr na bhfear óg? And where have you been since morning, oh flower of youth?
Bhí mé ag iascach ‘gus ag foghlaeireacht. Cóirigh mo leaba dhom. I was fishing and fowling. Get my bed ready for me.
Tá mé tinn fá mo chroí, agus ligigí dhom luí. My heart is sick and let me lie down.
2. Céard a d’ith tú ar do dhinnéir, a dheartháirín, ó? What did you eat for your dinner, little brother, oh?
‘S céard a d’ith tú ar do dhinnéir, a phlúr na bhfear óg? And what did you eat for your dinner, oh flower of youth?
Óra, eascann a raibh lúib (cor) inti, nimh fuinte ‘gus é brúite uirthi. Oh, eel that had a twist in it, poison kneaded and pressed onto it.
Tá mé tinn fá mo chroí, agus ligigí dhom luí. My heart is sick and let me lie down.
3. Céard a fhágfas tú ag do Dheaide, a dheartháirín, ó? What will you leave your Daddy, little brother, oh?
Céard a fhágfas tú ag do Dheaide, a phlúr na bhfear óg? What will you leave your Daddy, oh flower of youth?
Óra, eochair mo stábla aige. Sin ‘gus mo láir aige. Oh, the key to the stable. That and my mare.
Tá mé tinn fá mo chroí, agus ligigí dhom luí. My heart is sick and let me lie down.
4. Céard a fhágfas tú ag do dheartháir (dheirfiúr), a dheartháirín, ó?
What will you leave to your brother (sister), little brother, oh?
Céard a fhágfas tú ag do dheartháir (dheirfiúr), a phlúr na bhfear óg?
What will you leave to your brother (sister), oh flower of youth?
Óra, eochair mo thrunca aige (aici). Sin agus míle punt aige (aici). Oh, the key to my truck. That and a thousand pounds.
Tá mé tinn fá mo chroí, agus ligigí dhom luí. My heart is sick and let me lie down.
5. Céard a fhágfas tú ag do chleamhnaithe, a dheartháirín, ó? What will you leave your in-laws, little brother, oh?
Céard a fhágfas tú ag do chleamhnaithe, a phlúr na bhfear óg? What will you leave your in-laws, oh flower of youth?
Fuacht fada ‘gus seachrán agus oíche ar gach bothán. Long periods of coldness and straying and night with no shelter.
Tá mé tinn fá mo chroí, agus ligigí dhom luí. My heart is sick and let me lie down.
6. Céard a fhágfas tú ag do mháthair, a dheartháirín,ó? What will you leave your mother, little brother, oh?
‘S céard a fhágfas tú ag do mháthair, a phlúr na bhfear óg? And what will you leave your mother, oh flower of youth?
Dhá bhfágfainn an saol broghach aici, d’fhágfainn croí cráite aice. If I were to leave her to a sullied life, I would only leave her with a tormented heart.
Tá mé tinn fá mo chroí, agus ligigí dhom luí. My heart is sick and let me lie down.
7. Céard a fhágfas tú ag do bhean phósta, a dheartháirín, ó? What will you leave your wife, little brother, oh?
Céard a fhágfas tú ag do bhean phósta, a phlúr na bhfear óg? What will you leave your wife, oh flower of youth?
Óra, ifreann mar dhúiche aici, is na flaithis a bheith dúnta uirthi. Hell for her dwelling-place, heaven to be closed to her.
Tá mé tinn fá mo chroí, agus beidh go deo deo. My heart is sick, and will be forever.
“Cé raibh tú ó mhaidin a dheartháirín ó?
Cé raibh tú ó mhaidin a phlúir na bhfear óg?”
” Ag iascach ‘s ag foghlaereacht, cóirigh mo leaba dhom,
Tá mé tinn fá mo chroí agus caithfidh mé luí.”
“Céard a d’ith tú ag do bhricfeasta a dheartháirín ó?
Céard a d’ith tú ag do bhricfeasta a phlúir na bhfear óg?”
” Eascann a raibh lúb uirthi, nimh fuinte brúite uirthi,
Tá mé tinn fá mo chroí agus caithfidh mé luí.”
“Céard a fhágfas tú ag do dheartháir a dheartháirín ó?
Céard a fhágfas tú ag do dheartháir a phlúir na bhfear óg?”
” Muise, cúig mhíle punt aige, gunna agus cú aige,
Tá mé tinn fá mo chroí agus caithfidh mé luí.”
“Céard a fhágfas tú ag do dheirfiúr a dheartháirín ó?
Céard a fhágfas tú ag do dheifiúr a phlúir na bhfear óg?”
” Caoirigh beaga bána aici, na beithigh le bleán aici,
Tá mé tinn fá mo chroí agus caithfidh mé luí.”
“Céard a fhágfas tú ag t’athair a dheartháirín ó?
Céard a fhágfas tú ag t’athair a phlúir na bhfear óg?”
” Eochair mo stábla aige, cuig mile púnt aige,
Tá mé tinn fá mo chroí agus caithfidh mé luí.”
“Céard a fhágfas tú ag do mháithrín a dheartháirín ó?
Céard a fhágfas tú ag do mháithrín a phlúir na bhfear óg?”
” Má fhágaim an saol go brách aici, fágfad croí cráite aici,
Tá mé tinn fá mo chroí agus caithfidh mé luí.”
“Céard a fhágfas tú ag do chuid páistí a dheartháirín ó?
Céard a fhágfas tú ag do chuid páistí a phlúir na bhfear óg?”
” Muise fuacht fada ‘gus seachrán, agus oíche ar gach bothán,
Tá mé tinn fá mo chroí agus caithfidh mé luí.”
“Céard a fhágfas tú ag do bhean phósta a dheartháirín ó?
Céard a fhágfas tú ag do bhean phósta a phlúir na bhfear óg?”
” Ifreann mar dhúiche aici, na Flaithis a bheith dúinte uirthi,
Tá mé tinn fá mo chroí agus bead go deo deo.”
The Song of the Eel (Lord Randall)
“Where have you been since morning, my pet?
Where have you been since morning, oh flower of young men?”
” Fishing and fowling. Make my bed for me.
I’m sick in/to my heart and I’ll have to lie down.”
“What did you eat at your breakfast, my pet?
What did you eat at your breakfast, oh flower of young men?”
” An eel with a twist in her, poison kneaded and mixed into her.
I’m sick in/to my heart and I’ll have to lie down.”
“What will you leave your brother, my pet?
What will you leave your brother, oh flower of young men?”
” Five thousand pounds, a gun and a hound.
I’m sick in/to my heart and I’ll have to lie down.”
“What will you leave your sister, my pet?
What will you leave your sister, oh flower of young men?”
” Little white sheep and the cattle to milk.
I’m sick in/to my heart and I’ll have to lie down.”
“What will you leave your father, my pet?
What will you leave your father, oh flower of young men?”
” The key to my stable, that and my mare.
I’m sick in/to my heart and I’ll have to lie down.”
“What will you leave your mother, my pet?
What will you leave your mother, oh flower of young men?”
” If I leave life forever to her I’ll leave her a broken heart.
I’m sick in/to my heart and I’ll have to lie down.”
“What will you leave your children, my pet?
What will you leave your children, oh flower of young men?”
” A long time wandering in the cold, and each night a different shelter.
I’m sick in/to my heart and I’ll have to lie down.”
“What will you leave your wedded wife, my pet?
What will you leave your wedded wife, oh flower of young men?”
” Hell as her surroundings and Heaven to be closed on her.
I’m sick in/to my heart and will be for ever and ever.”
D’fhág Richard Murphy an saol seo inné. Seo dán óna Collected Poems 1952 – 2000 The Last Galway Hooker
le Richard Murphy
Where the Corrib river chops through the Claddagh
To sink in the tide-race its rattling chain
The boatwright’s hammer chipped across the water
Ribbing this hooker, while a reckless gun
Shook the limestone quay-wall, after the Treaty
Had brought civil war to this fisherman’s town.
That ‘tasty’ carpenter from Connemara, Cloherty,
Helped by his daughter, had half-planked the hull
In his eightieth year, when at work he died,
And she did the fastening, and caulked her well,
The last boat completed with old Galway lines.
Several seasons at the drift-nets she paid
In those boom-years, working by night in channels
With trammel and spillet and an island crew,
Tea-stew on turf in the pipe-black forecastle,
Songs of disasters wailed on the quay
When the tilt of the water heaved the whole shore.
‘She was lucky always the Ave Maria,’
With her brown barked sails, and her hull black tar,
Her forest of oak ribs and the larchwood planks,
The cavern-smelling hold bulked with costly gear,
Fastest in the race to the gull-marked banks,
What harbour she hived in, there she was queen
And her crew could afford to stand strangers drinks,
Till the buyers failed in nineteen twenty-nine,
When the cheapest of fish could find no market,
Were dumped overboard, the price down to nothing;
Until to her leisure a fisher priest walked
By the hungry dockside, full of her name,
Who made a cash offer, and the owners took it.
Then like a girl given money and a home
With no work but pleasure for her man to perform
She changed into white sails, her hold made room
For hammocks and kettles, the touch and perfume
Of priestly hands. So now she’s a yacht
With pitch-pine spars and Italian hemp ropes,
Smooth-running ash-blocks expensively bought
From chandlers in Dublin, two men get jobs
Copper-painting her keel and linseeding her throat,
While at weekends, nephews and nieces in mobs
Go sailing on picnics to the hermit islands,
Come home flushed with health having hooked a few dabs.
Munich, submarines, and the war’s demands
Of workers to feed invaded that party
Like fumes of the diesel the dope of her sails,
When the Canon went east into limed sheep-lands
From the stone and reed patches of lobstermen
Having sold her to one on Cleggan Quay,
Who was best of the boatsmen from Inishbofin,
She his best buy. He shortened the mast, installed
A new ‘Ailsa Craig’, made a hold of her cabin,
Poured over her deck thick tar slightly boiled;
Every fortnight he drained the sump in the bilge
‘To preserve the timbers.’ All she could do, fulfilled.
The sea, good to gamblers, let him indulge
His fear when she rose winding her green shawl
And his pride when she lay calm under his pillage:
And he never married, was this hooker’s lover,
Always ill-at-ease in houses or on hills,
Waiting for weather, or mending broken trawls:
Bothered by women no more than by the moon,
Not concerned with money beyond the bare need,
In this boat’s bows he sheathed his life’s harpoon.
A neap-tide of work, then a spring of liquor
Were the tides that alternately pulled his soul,
Now on a pitching deck with nets to hand-haul,
Then passing Sunday propped against a barrel
Winding among words like a sly helmsman
Till stories gathered around him in a shoal.
She was Latin blessed, holy water shaken
From a small whiskey bottle by a surpliced priest,
Madonnas wafered on every bulkhead,
Oil-grimed by the diesel, and her luck lasted
Those twenty-one years of skill buoyed by prayers,
Strength forged by dread from his drowned ancestors.
She made him money and again he lost it
In the fisherman’s fiction of turning farmer:
The cost of timber and engine spares increased,
Till a phantom hurt him, ribs on a shore,
A hulk each tide rattles that will never fish,
Sunk back in the sand, a story finished.
We met here last summer, nineteen fifty-nine,
Far from the missiles, the moon-shots, the money,
And we drank looking out on the island quay,
When his crew were in London drilling a motorway.
Old age had smoothed his barnacled will,
One calm evening he sold me the Ave Maria.
Then he was alone, stunned like a widower–
Relics and rowlocks pronging from the wall,
A pot of boiling garments, winter everywhere,
Especially in his bones, watching things fall,
Hooks of three-mile spillets, trammels at the foot
Of the unused double-bed–his mind threaded with all
The marline of his days twined within that boat,
His muscles’ own shackles then staying the storm
Which now snap to bits like frayed thread.
So I chose to renew her, to rebuild, to prolong
For a while the spliced yards of yesterday.
Carpenters were enrolled, the ballast and the dung
Of cattle he’d carried lifted from the hold,
The engine removed, and the stale bilge scoured.
De Valera’s daughter hoisted the Irish flag
At her freshly adzed mast this Shrove Tuesday,
Stepped while afloat between the tackle of the Topaz
And the St John, by Bonfin’s best boatsmen,
All old as himself. Her skilful sailmaker,
Her inherited boatwright, her dream-tacking steersman
Picked up the tools of their interrupted work,
And in memory’s hands this hooker was restored.
Old men my instructors, and with all new gear
May I handle her well down tomorrow’s sea-road.
Ó dúirt bean rialta liom ag sochraid m’athar i 2016: Oh, you haven’t gone all Gaelic on us, have you? Ha ha ha, táim ag smaoinigh ar a d’fhoghlaim muid is muid óg. Dochar ar bith ins na rannta a mhúin siad dúinn, raight? Fan go bhfeicfimid. Bhí focal san rann seo thíos atá ag cur as dom le déanaí. Sin Paddywhack. Mé ag éisteacht le daoine ag caint faoi Paddywhackery le déanaí is sin a chuir ag smaoinigh mé ar an rann seo:
This Old Man
This old man, he played one,
He played knick-knack on my thumb,
With a knick-knack, Paddywhack,
Give a dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.
This old man, he played two,
He played knick-knack on my shoe,
With a knick-knack paddywhack,
Give a dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.
This old man, he played three,
He played knick-knack on my knee,
With a knick-knack paddywhack,
Give the dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.
This old man, he played four,
He played knick-knack on my door,
With a knick-knack paddywhack,
Give the dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.
This old man, he played five,
He played knick-knack on my hive,
With a knick-knack paddywhack,
Give the dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.
This old man, he played six,
He played knick-knack on my sticks,
With a knick-knack paddywhack,
Give the dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.
This old man, he played seven,
He played knick-knack up in heaven,
With a knick-knack paddywhack,
Give the dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.
This old man, he played eight,
He played knick-knack on my gate,
With a knick-knack paddywhack,
Give the dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.
This old man, he played nine,
He played knick-knack on my spine,
With a knick-knack paddywhack,
Give the dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.
This old man, he played ten,
He played knick-knack once again,
With a knick-knack paddywhack,
Give the dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.
Foilsithe ar dtús i 1906. Seans maith, áfach go raibh sé thart i bhfad roimh sin, fiú ag am an ghorta. Tá cumhacht ag focail. Tuigimid anois gur bhain Ring a Ring a Rosie leis an bplá. Céard a chiallaíonn na focail paddywhack agus knick-knack sa rann seo?
Úsáidtear an focal Paddy le tagairt mhaslach a dhéanamh d’Éireannaigh (fós). Ciallaíonn Whack buille láidir. Ciallaíonn knick-knack rud gan mórán luach leis. Freisin tá an bhrí cleas suarach nó dallamullóg leis san 16ú aois ach ní mhaireann an bhrí sin anois. Tá an focal Knackers againn sa Bhéarla fós agus téarma maslach atá ann. Fós, tá neart daoine ann a cheapann go bhfuil na tincéirí, na knackers ann le rudaí a robáil uainn. Mhair an ciníochas seo i bhfad agus seo an ciníochas is láidre in Éirinn anois.
Nuair a robáil na Sasanaigh ár dtír is bhí orainn cíos gan raibh againn a n-íoc do na daoine a ghoid an talamh uainn, bhí ar go leor daoine an bóthar a bhualadh is aon rud a bhí acu a dhíol, fiú rudaí gan mórán luach nó cleasanna a dhéanamh mar shiamsa le airgead a fháil is iad gan áit ná bia. Is a dtithe ar rothaí ag cuid acu bheadh siad ag rolling home nó b’fhéidir gur tagairt do mheisceoirí atá ann: bealach eile luach a bhaint dínn mar dhaoine, muid a mhaslú.
Nuair a chuaigh na tincéirí ó dhoras go doras, is minic a dúradh leo an bóthar a bhualadh. Ach leis an dehumanization ar fad a dhéantar le ‘coilíniú’ is minic a thug daoine whack do dhuine ag an doras nó ar an tsráid. Ciníochas. Cuid acu a chaitheadh cnámh go madra ach nach dtabharfadh greim le nithe dóibh.
Brí eile b’fhéidir leis an knick-knack sin. An raibh sé ag seinm Knick-knack? An na spúnóga atá i gceist anseo? Siamsa le ceol is na spúnóga mar uirlis: ar an nglúin srl
B’fhéidir é. Ciall leis.
Anois. Ar aghaidh linn go rann eile.
Goosey Goosey Gander
Goosey goosey gander,
Where shall I wander?
Upstairs and downstairs
And in my lady’s chamber.
And there I met an old man
Who wouldn’t say his prayers,
So I took him by his left leg
And threw him down the stairs
Foilsithe ar dtús i 1784. Seans go raibh sé thart ón am a scar Henry VIII an Eaglais ón Róimh. Ciallaíonn an left leg sa rann Caitliceach. Chuardaigh daoine na tithe le greim a fháil ar Chaitlicigh. Bhí poll rúnda i dteach go minic le sagart a choinneáil i bhfolach ann dá mbeadh gá leis. Nach uafásach ar fad seanfhear a chaitheamh down the stairs mar sin mar Caitliceach a bhí ann.
Caitlicigh! Tincéirí! Paddywhackery!
In am dúinn a thuiscint an bhrí leo. Seo 2018. Bíodh rannta as Gaeilge sna scoileanna a mhúineann meas orainn féin dúinn, is cuma cé mhéad airgid nó cén reiligún atá againn.
Thug Sarah Shourd cuairt ar ár scoil uair le caint linn faoi a tharla di. Meiriceánach óg, tanaí, lag ag labhairt linn go ciúin le misneach. Ar nós taibhse, a cheap mé. Marbh ach ag siúl i dtromluí an cuma a bhí uirthi. Ba léir go raibh ualach cruálach á iompar aici.
A scéal anseo. Bhí sí le cairde ag siúl sna sléibhte san Iaráic i 2009 nuair a ghlaoigh saighdiúirí orthu agus lean siad é transa an teorainn i ngan fhios dóibh. Chaith siad i bpríosún iad.
Labhair Sarah linn tar éis di saoirse a bhaint amach ach bhí a comráidí fós i bpríosún. Labhair sí faoi bheith i gcill ina haonar ar feadh 410 lá. Briseann sin duine. Is í ‘saor,’ d’airigh sí nach raibh cead aici sos a thógáil ná saoirse a bhlaiseadh i gceart go dtí go mbeadh a cairde saor chomh maith. Mar a dúirt sí: “I had a tremendous feeling of responsibility. The burden weighed on me so heavily. For a year I was basically living on adrenaline. I didn’t enjoy my food—I just ate it. I worked. I exercised. I couldn’t allow myself to feel anything. I was like a machine.”
B’shin fuascailt a ghortaigh go géar. Smaoinigh mé ar Sarah is an t-ualach uirthi nuair a bhí fuath ban le feiceáil go láidir in Éirinn an tseachtain seo. Cad is cúis leis?
Na meáin.
Is iad na meáin a deireann linn mar atá an saol. Is duine gránna é Denis O’Brien le teachtaireacht ghránna: frith-oibritheoir, frith- ceardchumainn, frith cearta, tacaíocht do na saibhir, do na gardaí. Is sochapatach é.
Tá roinnt mhaith de na meáin agus OSPIDÉIL (?! CONAS – ach, nuair a smaoiníonn tú air, ospidéil ag an Eaglais so is léir gur cuma sa feic leis an Rialtas fúinn) tógtha ag Denis O’Brien. Nuair a chailleann tú na meáin, tá an tír damanta. ‘Fhios againn sin i SAM. Ná tabhair ceadúnas d’fhuathghrúpaí. Sin a tharla i SAM le FOX. Sin an fáth go bhfuil Trump againn. Tuig an dochar.
Bhí an tseachtain seo deacair. An-deacair! Le meáin Denis O’Brien (Communicorp) tá guth agus cumhacht ag fuath sa tír buíochas le leithéidí George Hook ar Newstalk FM. D’ionsaigh sé mná lena theachtaireacht: níl faitíos orm rudaí uafásacha a rá go hoscailte mar ní ceart meas a thabhairt do mhná. Is tháinig na diabhail amach le misneach a thug Hook dóibh, ag fógairt a bhfuath ban.
Tá RTÉ ciontach freisin!
Ar nós scéal Sarah is a cairde fós i bpríosún, labhraíonn an t-amhrán Four Green Fields faoi mac in bondage. Conas is féidir leis an máthair bheith saor nó sona le mac gafa ag daoine eile. Sin céasadh. Ach tá daoine nach dtuigeann sin mar tá siad chomh tógtha suas leo féin. Feall é dearmad a dhéanamh ar stair. Feall é do mhuintir féin a thréigeadh. Feall é meas níos mó a thabhairt do na daoine a ghortaíonn an tír ná do na daoine ag iarraidh an tír a shábháil. Tugann RTÉ meas do mheon an BBC. Coir is déanaí uathu:
An choir is mó? Gan bheith ann. Dofheicthe. Glanta amach. Gan stair, ná guth, ná cruth. Sin a dhéanann niqab. Sin a dhéanann Guardianship san Araib Shádach. Sin a dhéanann dlí na hÉireann: ag rá nach leis an mbean a corp féin. Sin a rinne RTÉ leis an mapa sin.
Fuascailt í ach tá dhá bhrí leis an bhfocal is b’fhearr liom a ceapadh go bhfuil deis ann anois don tír. Ár dtír gan saoirse, gan cearta, gan aithne aici uirthi féin atá againn faoi láthair. Is féidir sin a athrú. Ná glac le meon an BBC. Ná glan amach an tuaisceart.
Tá RTÉ ar son Ethos damanta agus faisisteachas nuair a sheinneann siad an Angelus chuile lá beo le rá linn cé atá i gceannas. In am éirigh as.
2. George Hook:
Scríobh Hired Knaves alt faoi George Hook, an Bill O’Reilly nó Trump nó Bannon na hÉireann. Is fiú go mór é a léamh anseo. An méid a chosain é! Mé tinn ag smaoineamh air. Mná ina measc le maithiúnas agus leithscéalta dó. Is é maithiúnas a fhágann muid damanta sa tír seo. Ara shur. Is leads iad. Old fashioned. Níl dochar ann. Don’t make trouble. Ach tá dochar ann, leads. Ceadaíonn sé fuath agus foréigean. Ní chreideann sibh conas mar is aingil sibh? Osna. Raight. Munar féidir libh fiú smaoineamh ar bhean ag fulaingt, leads, féach ar seo:
Ní féidir liom scríobh faoi na daoine a tháinig ar ais le fuath ar nós You’re too ugly to be raped. Ghoill sé gur inis mná a scéalta agus ba chuma le daoine faoin bpian. Níos measa ná sin. D’ionsaigh siad iad. Tá an t-aire Simon Coveney ciúin ar an ngalar seo. Tá mná na tíre ag fulaingt. Ráiteas de dhíth.
3. Dlí McQuaid
Ní raibh saoirse againn mar a cheapamar nuair a bhfuaireamar réidh le himpireacht na Breataine sa deisceart. Deacair bheith sona nuair atá cuid díot fós gan saoirse. Ghoid McQuaid aon seans againn bheith saor sa deisceart lena bhfuath ban is a pheidifíleacht. An EAGLA in Eaglais soiléir nuair a bhí an sochapatach sin i gceannas. An dlí aige fós láidir sa tír.
Ach ní in Éirinn amháin a d’imir an Eaglais a cleas gránna.
Scéal #2 ó Albain
An cailín ciontach, ní an sagart mar, tá ‘fhios agat, tá an chumhacht ag an Eaglais.
Seo a scríobh Flann O Brien & Tom O’Higgins faoi: In Cavan there was a great fire, Judge McCarthy was sent to enquire. It would be a shame if the nuns were to blame So it had to be cause by a wire.
Ar ndóigh.
Sin scéal na hÉireann. Dallamullóg. Ryan Report. An Eaglais fós i gceannas. Freagracht AR BITH. Scéal Tuam Babies agus áiteachaí cosúil leis ar fud na tíre in Éirinn ach tada déanta faoi fós. Scéal na Magdalenes ar nós scéal Sarah. Cuid dínn goidthe. Mná nach bhfuil ‘fhios aici cá bhfuil a leanaí mar ghoid daoine iad is níl eolas le fáil air. Tromluí. Na mílte acu.
Agus an Rape Culture sin? Le oideachas na hEaglaise, thuig na leads go raibh cumhacht acu.
Dlí McQuaid. Dlí eachtrannach. I never believed in rape culture, a d’admhaigh Garda Daz Topaz ar Twitter. Cén fáth? Mar múineadh drochmheas ar mhná dúinn. Bhí agus tá na gardaí leis an Eaglais in aghaidh na mná.
Bhí agus tá cearta sciobtha ó mhná na hÉireann. Tá an tuaisceart sciobtha ón tír ag Westminster agus an deisceart sciobtha ag an Vatacáin.
Caint ann faoi SAOIRSE na laethanta seo agus céard is brí leis.
Fuascailt
Caithfear caint freisin faoi Fhianna Gael is an grá atá acu do George Hook. Labhraíonn sé ag an Ard-Fheis acu. Ach caithfear a admháil nach bhfuil rudaí níos fearr le Fianna Fáil. Faisisteachas ceadaithe le fada. Caithfear a thuiscint nach bhfuil Sinn Féin ag caint faoi Eaglais/Stát a scaradh. Athrú de dhíth.
Ba bhreá liom saoirse ó bhagairtí. Ba bhreá liom tír le cearta. Go dtuigfidh daoine gur coir í fuathchaint. Nach gcuirfimid suas le fuathghrúpaí ar nós an DUP agus an OO níos mó. Is bagairt iad. Nach mbeidh dream a ghoid leanaí i gceannas ar oideachas na tíre níos mó. Go mbeidh Daonlathas in áit Dialathas againn. Go n-aithneoidh gardaí (agus chuile dhuine) socapataigh inár measc agus go mbeidh muid in ann deighleáil leo is bheith slán. Go mbeidh an tír ar ais le chéile. Go mbeidh iriseoireacht, ní fuath ná bolscaireacht ná shock jocks, againn sna meáin.
Go mbeidh deireadh le fuath ban.
Ní féidir sin a dhéanamh i nDialathas.
An bhfuair siad réidh le George Hook fós? Le ceadúnas Communicorp?
Seo am Shasamach, a chairde. Seo an t-am when hope and history rhyme. Ná bíodh an rhyme sin ar nós an Limerick a scríobh Flann O’Brien. Bíodh sé lán le tuiscint agus saoirse agus tír le cearta.
Tá comórtaisí againn don Aonach Éireannach i Long Beach an deireadh seachtaine seo.
Beidh Scéalaíocht, Filíocht, agus Amhránaíocht in onóir Breda Cusack, Dolly Martin, agus Marsha Sculatti nach maireann ann.
Tá teastaisí & trófaithe againn do na buaiteoirí.
Ach cad a dhéanfaidh daoine? Le bheith réidh don stáidse, seo cúnamh dóibh atá ag iarraidh scéalta, rannta, agus amhráin anseo:
Samplaí
Scéal: Sochraid
Cailleadh fear ar an mbaile seo uair amháin. Chuaigh duine dá ghaolta ag lorg cairr lena chorp a thabhairt chun na reilige. Ach, mo léan, ní raibh aon charr ar fáil. Thosaigh siad uilig ag caint sa teach agus ag fiafraí dá chéile céard a dhéanfaidís gan charr. An chéad rud eile chuala siad guth as an seomra ag rá: “Seo, ná bac leis an gcarr. Siúlfaidh mé ann.”
1. Amhrán: Téir Abhaile, riú
Curfá: Téir abhaile ‘riú ! X2 Téir abhaile ‘riú Mháire !
Téir abhaile ‘riú ‘s fan sa bhaile mar tá do mharghadh déanta.
1. Is cuma cé dhein é nó nár dhein. Is cuma cé dhein é, a Mhary.
Is cuma cé dhein é nó nár dhein mar tá do mharghadh déanta.
2. Pós an píobaire. X2 Pós an píobaire, a Mhary.
Pós an piobaire I dtús na hoíche is beidh sé agat ar maidin.
3. Níl mo mhargadh. Tá do mhargadh. Níl mo mhargadh déanta.
Tá do mhargadh. Níl mo mhargadh. Tá do mhargadh déanta.
1. Rann: Na Blátha Craige
A dúirt mé leis na blátha: “Nach suarach an áit a fuair sibh le bheith ag déanamh aeir
Teannta suas anseo le bruach na haille,
gan fúibh ach an chloch ghlas & salachar na n-éan,
áit bhradach, lán le ceo agus farraige cháite,
Ní scairteann grian anseo ó Luan go Satharn le gliondar a chur oraibh”
A dúirt na blátha craige: “Is cuma linn, a stór. Táimid faoi dhraíocht ag ceol na farraige.”
D’imigh mo Dhaid ón saol seo i mí na Samhna i mbliana. Bhí 90 bliain aige anseo is chaith sé roinnt mhaith den am sin ag scríobh don Westmeath Examiner.
Cheap mé go mbeinn ag scríobh dán dó faoin am seo. ACH, is mé san mbaile ag dul trí na leabhair aige, tháinig mé ar leabhar scoile leis. Atlas. An domhan ar fad ann ach is léir nach raibh suim aige sa thíreolaíocht. Is léir gur chaith sé an t-am sa rang ag scríobh dánta ar chúl na mapaí. Bhí bronntanas fágtha aige dom, i ngan fhios dom le blianta fada, san Atlas sin. Mé ag léamh anois na smaointe a bhí aige is é óg. É fós ag míniú a shaol dom trí na focail seo. Pearsanta.
Seo thuas dán a scríobh sé do mo mháthair sula raibh said pósta. Bhí sé 19 ag an am. Tá mé tar éis a fheiceáil inniu at Tweet ó @britishlibrary mar a bhí leabhar nóta William Blake
An stíl fadó. Ar aon nós, ar ais ar a scríobh mo Dhaidí. Ba chóir dom a mhíniú gur thaitin filíocht Percy French go mór le mo Mhaim. Seo an t-amhrán The Mountains of Mourne ach d’athraigh Daidí na focail le ceist thábhachtach a chur uirthi. Ní raibh tideal air ach roghnaigh mé I Dare to Enquire ón véarsa deireanach a bhí aige. Deacair an scríbhinn a dhéanamh amach scaití.
Nioclás Mac an Fhailigh & Peigí Ní Chochláin
I Dare to Enquire
O Peggy, it seems that this world of toil
Is rendered an Eden each time that you smile.
All cares and all troubles take flight with the wind
To leave love resplendent and beauty behind.
The bold Spanish maidens for beauty renowned
Are as fair as the lily and gay, I’ll be bound.
But none fairer than thee, none ever could be
While the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.
We’re told that in London they once dug for gold
And now in this era we’re digging threefold.
But it’s not just for gold but this dislodging of hearts
Which often are bricks and severed in parts.
‘Tis said that in science we’re so far advanced
That life’s now a luxury by intentions enhanced.
If this folly were nurtured, I’d not wonder to see
The mountains of Mourne sink down ‘neath the sea.
One day as the sun shone I chanced just to stray
When who should I meet but sweet Peg on her way.
The sun’s rays grew brighter till it shone doubly bright
And my pulse it responded to welcome the sight.
Thus in life if ‘tis fated that sorrow prevail,
Joy comes to the rescue when all seems to fail.
And the darkest of clouds soon brighter will be
Than the mountains of Mourne sweeping down to the sea.
From time immemorial from Meath’s godless shade
This changing of hearts ‘to a custom was made.
The maid gave her heart, the lad likewise did.
And sometimes they were exchanged to the highest-made bid.
Of all this confusion I do not approve
Let your heart join with mine as a unit of love.
Then there’ll be but one heart for you and for me
While the mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.
Let us all take our choice and examine its source
Are the decisions for better or worse?
But too, hearts when exchanged will parted remain
And before long grow cold and weighty with strain.
But two hearts that are young with true lovers’ embrace
Open they remain to keep love in its place.
Thus I dare to enquire if our hearts so might be
While the mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.
