I put my hope carefully balanced
into this tiny boat of a language
as if laying a baby
into a cradle
woven and sewn
of iris leaves,
and bitumen and pitch
rubbed underneath
then setting it down
in the midst of reeds
and bulrushes*
at the side of the river
watching, wondering,
where the stream will take it
watching-- like Moses,
will Pharaoh's daughter see it?
--Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill (1952-) speaks Irish and English, but writes in Irish, which she knows is an endangered language. My translation is above, but the well-known translation is by Paul Muldoon, another Irish poet:
I place my hope on the water
in this little boat
of the language, the way a body might put
an infant
in a basket of intertwined
iris leaves,
its underside proofed
with bitumen and pitch,
then set the whole thing down amidst
the sedge
and bulrushes by the edge
of a river
only to have it borne hither and thither,
not knowing where it might end up;
in the lap, perhaps,
of some Pharaoh’s daughter.
Ceist na Teangan
Cuirim mo dhóchas ar snámh
i mbáidín teangan
faoi mar a leagfá naíonán
i gcliabhán
a bheadh fite fuaite
de dhuilleoga feileastraim
is bitiúman agus pic
bheith cuimilte lena thóin
ansan é a leagadh síos
i measc na ngiolcach
is coigeal na mban sí
le taobh na habhann,
féachaint n’fheadaraís
cá dtabharfaidh an sruth é,
féachaint, dála Mhaoise,
an bhfóirfidh iníon Fhorainn?
*["fairy-woman's distaff" in Irish, from the way it looks. In America, we call it "cattail."]
