John's business partner in the Gaelic Hit Factory is the foxy poet

Louis de Paor

Born in Cork in 1961, Louis de Paor has been involved with the contemporary rennaissance of poetry in Irish since 1980 when he was first published in the poetry journal Innti which he subsequently edited for a time. A three times winner of the Seán Ó Ríordáin/Oireachtas Award, the premier award for a new collection of poems in Irish, he lived in Australia from 1987 to 1996. His first bilingual collection, Aimsir hreicneach/Freckled Weather was shortlisted for the Victorian Premier's Award for Literary Translation. He was also granted a Writer's Fellowship by the Australia Council in 1995. He is the recipient of the Lawrence O'Shaughnessy Award 2000, the first poet in Irish to achieve that distinction. His most recent collection is Corcach agus Dánta Eile published in a bilingual edition in Australia as Cork and Other Poems. A new collection, agus rud eile de, will be published by Coiscéim in Autumn 2002.


An tAmhránaí

Is dóigh leis an mbeirt os mo chomhair
gur leosan amháin a labhrann

nuair a chanann a gholtraí grámhar
is fada le barra a méar

go mbeidh said sa bhaile is cead
seanma ar a chéile acu go maidin.

Is ait le haonaráin is iarleannáin
go mbeadh fonn briste a gcroíthe ar bharr

a theanga ag fear nár casadh orthu cheana.
Nuair a bhuaileann na sreanganna síoda

a cheangail dá chéile an chéad lá riamh iad,
druideann an lánúin phósta dá mbuíochas

i leith a chéile. Nuair a chuimlíonn uillinn
a léine sin le gualainn a mhná, baineann

fear óg ar thaobh eile an tseomra
a gheansaí samhraidh de is iarrann

ar fhear an tí an teas a ísliú in ainm
dílis Dé. Guíonn an cailín a bhfuil áilleacht

an bhróin ina gnúis go mbeidh sé gan chéile
go bhfaighidh sé í. Tá foireann na gclog

ag réabadh na hoíche lasmuigh, scuaine
scuadcharr, otharcharr is inneall dóiteán

ar a gcoimeád ón tine nach féidir a mhúchadh
i gcuislí dóite na bhfear míshocair laistigh

atá mall chun na sochraide arís.In aice an droichid,
tá nodaireacht an uaignis ar chuilithíní an aeir

os a chionn léite go cruinn ag an bhfear
atá díreach tar éis léimt. Tá barr an uisce

chomh mín le bráillín, a éadan gan roc amhail éide
banaltran is tonn álainn an cheoil ina bhéal

á bhodhradh ar bhuaireamh an tsaoil. Leanann
an ceoltóir ag seinm ar na sreanganna fola a shíneann

ón gcroí go dtí béal a ghiotáir. Tá a chaoineadh
chomh séimh le pluid na habhann á tarraingt os ár gcionn go léir.

The Singer

These two here in front of me
think he's singing to only them

when he plays a loving lament,
their fingers ache to be home

where they can play on each
other till morning. The lonely

and old flames are amazed
a man they've never met

has the broken tunes of their dreams
off by heart on the tip of his tongue.

When he touches the strings
that tied them together the first time

ever, the married couple in the corner
move closer in spite of themselves.

When the sleeve of the man's shirt
brushes his wife's shoulder, a young fella

at the other end of the room
takes off his summer jumper and asks the barman

to turn the heat down for God Almighty's sake.
The girl made lovely by sorrow prays

he'll never rest until he finds her.
Outside, a fleet of sirens storms the night,

squadcars, ambulances and fire-brigades
running from the fire that can't be put out

in the smouldering hearts of the men inside
who are late again for the neverending funeral.

Beside the bridge, the morse code
of loneliness broadcast on flurries

of air is clear as day to the man
who has just jumped. The water is smooth

as a sheet and his face uncreased
as a nurse's veil. He is deaf to the world

as the music fills his mouth, washing away
a world of worries. The singer

keeps on strumming the strings stretch
from the heart to the mouth of his guitar.

His cry is soft as the river, a blanket of water
drawn up over all our sleepy heads.