'Ualach'
Dán scríofa agus curtha i láthair ag Ciara Ní É @miseciara. Téacs an dáin thíos agus mar fhoththeidil.
(Written and performed by: Ciara Ní É @miseciara. Text of poem and translation below, and Irish text as subtitle.)
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Ualach
le Ciara Ní É
“An bhfuil éinne anseo ag iompar clainne?"
An ghnáthcheist ag tús rang ióga.
Shamhlaigh sí
dá luífeadh sí ar a droim,
in shavasana,
feadh seacht mí eile
go bhfásfadh a bolg ina shliabh,
lán de leanbh.
Ach
cibé a bhí á iompar aici,
ní a clannsa a bhí ann.
Síol a cuireadh inti i ngan fhios di,
coimpeart agus gin,
dhá thic ghorma na tástála;
sin a mhothaigh sí ina broinn.
Chonaic sí le déanaí
boilg ata mórthimpeall uirthi.
Máithreacha mórtasacha.
Ach ní raibh sise ag súil le páiste.
Ní raibh sí ag súil le tada
seachas éalú ar eitleán
agus filleadh, ina haonar, ina folmhán.
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Translation of poem:
(it's hard to translate this particular poem, but here is an attempt)
Baggage
Ciara Ní É
“Any pregnancies or injuries?”
the normal pre-yoga class enquiry.
She imagined lying on her back
in shavasana
for the next seven months
and how her belly would balloon,
full of daughter or son.
But she wasn’t ‘carrying a child’
wasn’t ‘pregnant’, this time.
Inside she felt only an unexpected brew of
scientific terms like procreation and gestation,
metaphors of planted seeds and germination,
two blue lines on a white stick,
and sick.
Lately, on every street corner
she saw the proud swollen stomachs
of proper expectant mothers.
But she wasn’t expecting a child.
All she was expecting
was to flee her home for a fake mini-break,
and to fly home alone.
#repealthe8th
