2007Abbreviations: GO – Gaelic only; BGE – Bilingual, Gaelic/English; BGG – Bilingual, Gaelic/Gaeilge; BGS – Bilingual, Gaelic/Scots
Poetry Collections
Latest poetry collection is a co-authored bilingual work with Mark O. Goodwin titled Dà Thaobh a’ Bhealaich/The Two Sides of the Pass, (BGE), Two Ravens Press, 2009 ISBN 978-1-906120-47-4
Breac-a’-Mhuiltein
(Mackerel Sky) selected poems 1974-2006 BGG Coiscéim, Dublin, 2007
Available from www.coisceim.ie
(Breac-a’-Mhuiltein contains most of the verse from the following collections plus some new poems: Eileanan (Islands), GO, 1980; Bailtean (Villages), BGE, 1987; A’ Càradh an Rathaid (Mending the Road), BGG, 1988; A’ Gabhail Ris (Accepting), GO, 1994; Saoghal Ùr (New/Fresh World), GO, 2002).
Children’s verse
Blasad de Aesop GO Seahorse, Tobermory, 1991
Anthologies (with a substantial number of poems)
An Aghaidh na Sìorraidheachd (In the Face of Eternity) BGE (8 poets) Polygon, Edinburgh, 1991
Scotland o Gael an Lawlander (4 poets) BGS Gairm, Glasgow, 1996
An Tuil (The Flood) BGE Polygon, Edinburgh, 1999
Translated Poems
Below are English translations of some of my Gaelic poems. They don’t claim to be poems in their own right but may give some idea of the originals, which can be viewed by following the Gàidhlig links.
In the Moor
One day as I sat quietly,
I saw the red road
rising from the blue moor
and disappearing without trace.
Who will take the road
repaying life from blood
to the top of the far shoulder
beyond the pale glen of the word.
(Below, the sea was a witness
with its faint mocking laughter –
pathless and wordless,
level its surface and song).
But I wanted the road
that will perhaps break the heart,
and jauntily I set off,
seeing the dust and soil,
kissing the dirt in my hand –
footsteps of bards long gone.
And a truth dawned on me
amidst the stillness of words –
poetry isn’t saying but being.
from Eileanan/Islands 1980
Islands
Islands rise from the sea,
their foundations hidden
in ancient experiences.
Islands are in and out of time,
guides for the wanderer,
or submerged in time long gone.
Some are well established,
high and dark in the flood.
No storm will affect their well-formed front.
Some in lava and sulphurous grief,
sea children of torn heart.
And others, icebergs, coldly moving in the water.
Some will stand silent,
lonely – inwardly as rock –
unassuming in the heat of the day.
And there is an island in the dusk,
assured, dark, and repelling,
its foundations in a fading time.
And this island in the sunset,
island watching another island.
You decide your own form.
From Eileanan/Islands, 1980
My Village Tonight
You are my village tonight,
remarkable your lights,
warm glow in the moor’s bleakness.
High above Shore Street
your other streets rise –
streets like a soft carpet –
and my hands will feel your paths
and my heart your heart.
Woodland and tree between the ways,
they will rise on the summits
and the knolls will be soft with moss
and the moss with dew.
You are the resplendent village,
little village by the wave,
secret village of my love,
tidal village and earth village,
village of the soft breasts,
village that will ease from self
and keep us folded as one.
When you lift your summer skirt
I will dance on your meadow,
and we will ascend the steps
up from the edge of the sea
until we are above the world,
and I see you lying below me
like a diamond in the kyle.
From Bailtean/Bailtean 1987
Between Law and Laughter
This poem unashamedly
walks the borderland between law and laughter,
growing like a tree in the
light of the sun,
the leaves dance wherever they like,
the trunk grows where it must:
growing in the gap between law and freedom
aware that freedom is only:
those laws hidden from man.
And at last the conclusion
that a veil of unknowing covers our eyes.
from A’ Càradh an Rathaid/Mending the Road, 1988
Over the Threshold
I go over the threshold
joyfully, elated
because I have seen a little gleam
of sunshine through the curtains.
I’m going on a journey,
doubtful, fearful,
because I’m not sure what’s ahead
or behind me
although I did see a golden gleam on the everlasting mountain.
O soft idols of the pillow!
I take my leave of you
joyfully, with doubt, with tears,
because I have been wrong for so long,
for the spendthrift days,
for the warm, deceitful bedcovers.
O, all-seeing heart!
O, deceiving, soiled heart
you are killed with sacrifices,
flayed by the knife of the morning!
But go over the threshold, don’t look back
to the warm, comfortable home,
or to the weathertight walls.
You are out in the light;
the mountains are shouting;
the marvellous wilderness is before you;
the eternal stars are spraying you with dew,
stretched out with the endless plain.
O marvel! O elation! O unending miracle!
From Saoghal Ùr/New World, 2003