Briseadh Croí na Pomagránaite
by Gráinne Ketelaar

Ón iarthuaisceart go dtí an meánoirthear
Ón daróg go dtí an ológ
Lasimid soilse daoibh
Soilse dóchais
Soilse nach ndéanfaidh dearmad
Soilse mórchúiseacha
Go maire sibh i ndiaidh
Na n-urbholg agus na n-arm amplach
Ón tréibh eile
nuair nach bhfuil aon rud le cailliúint agaibh
ach anáil na beatha

An inseoidh lorg na haimsire bréag na féinchosanta
Atá go fírinneach
Faoi Suez nua a lorg
Nó glanadh tailte

Le craiceann agus cré coirteach le fosfar bán
An áireofar fiúntas na troda seo le talamh agus le hearraí nimhe
do na glúnta atá le teacht

As an talamh fial do chromamar go léir
’Is ag iompar croíthe pomagránaite
Lán le grá agus caill
Cumha agus mianchumha
Péarlaí beaga de phaidreacha dearga
Don mhian mheasartha -
Ár bpáistí a chur a luí san oíche,
a mbuairt faoi arrachtaí a laghdú
Le ‘fadó fadó’ agus ‘codladh sámh séimh’
Agus ár dtuismitheoirí á n-adhlacadh
I ndiaidh dóibh saol fada sláintiúil lánaibí a chaitheamh
Iad cróga is críonna

Ón daróg go dtí an ológ
Lasimid soilse daoibh
Soilse dóchais
Soilse nach ndéanfaidh dearmad
Soilse mórchúiseacha
Go maire sibh i ndiaidh
Na n-urbholg agus na n-arm amplach
Uatha siúd atá ar son bhur soilse a mhúchú

Go maire na crainn ológ agus na daracha
Is pomagránait
le gach tréibh a chothú

IF YOU'RE FEELING CAGED IN
By Cullan Maclear

take the patch of grass ‘round the back
of the house for a field, watch the yellow
flowered weeds bend backwards
in the wind — how vast
the vibracrete wall, the concrete
slats whose seams are the only
horizons ‘round here. Take a little
sky to bed with you, asleep
in the day like a candle
burning in full sun, pretend
the inside of your mind is a blue
no-one can describe, don’t
worry about the bacteria
on your cotton pillowslip, they too
love the wide open and living.

Poem
by Simon Goligher

I want to tell you about the sunlight on the water,
the curlew perched at the rock pool, scrying
shannies through the ripples, the couples and kids
walking the shore on the last day of autumn.
I want to tell you I’m all right, I’ve gone social –
pints with colleagues, chit-chat with baristas,
watching soap operas with cousins and aunties,
maintaining eye contact and dental hygiene.

I want to tell you the poems are improving bit
by bit. I’m taking a swing at this sort of mundane
yet melancholic love lyric, which pays homage
to the birds and the sea but keeps the ‘I’ impassive,
till the reader – sick of the sexless reflexivity –
surrenders with a why-should-I-give-a-fuck shrug.

Ómós do Pheadar (Dhá theanga)
by Álanna Hammel

“Ár mhaith le héinne dán a léamh?” 
Our teacher in the Gaeltacht asked 
And all eyes turned to Peadar; 
The middle-aged German student 
In the front of the class. 

Peadar said that he would read 
Géibheann le Caitlín Maude 
Likely the most well-known poems in Gaeilge ach tharraing Peadar muid isteach, 
Mar nár chuala muid an friotal fileata riamh roimhe. D’imigh na cuimhní cinn orm 
ag peannadh san fhoghraíocht ansin, 
His reading has us under a spell.

Memories flew back of myself then, 
Reading Géibheann for the first time as a 
Fifth year in the Vocational College 
Aibhsitheoir glas don stór focal nárbh eol dom, Buí le haghaidh frásaí tábhachtacha, 
Cúig abairt i gcuimhne ar shaol an fhile, 
That’s all I needed to pass. 
Léigh Peadar an dán cosúil le paidir. 
More eloquently than any oral exam I ever gave. D’fhógair sé scéal beatha an fhile, 
Ag casadh gach focal le fuinneamh. 
Smaoinigh mé air, 
Béilí a fhreastalaíonn bean an tí, 
Ag roinnt seomraí le fir tríocha bliain dá shóisear. 
Peadar, an bhliain thíos fúm i gColáiste na Tríonóide, Le bean chéile agus iníon aige i Londain. 
 “Is cailín cliste í,” a dúirt sé liom, thar pionta sa chistin. “Cosúil lena hathair,” níor dhearmad mé a lua. Eisimircigh Éireannacha ba ea tuismitheoirí Pheadair, Mar sin a mhíníonn a ainm, 
Cé gur inis mé mo scéalta de shaol an Oir-Dheiscirt; Stánann aonáin choigríche amach ina inchinn. 
Meanwhile, ar fud na hÉireann, 
Déanann mic léinn drochmheas ar ár máthairtheanga. Beag dár gcúpla focal,
Éilítear “What’s the point?” 
Suíonn déagóirí ag deasca 
Ceisteanna aiste foghlama de ghlanmheabhair Chun scór “ceart go leor” a fháil agus 
Scrios an chéad ghlúin eile de theangeolaithe. 
Meanwhile, somewhere, 
There are other versions of us. 
Younger versions of us 
Who obsess over pre-frontal cortexes, 
Whose grandparents use the imperative case, Who hope and pray that each child in Ireland is born Le dhá shúil, dhá chluas, dhá lámh, dhá chos, agus Dhá theanga.