Return

 A poem of mine in Braided Way Magazine marvelously translated into Gaelic (ancient Irish) by Gabriel Rosenstock. Thank you, Gabriel! LINK

Through with the big corporation.
Through with the nation-state.
Through with the global church, the world guru.
Ready to return and taste the sparkling
renaissance of the small and the local.
No left or right: the center, yes,
but without circumference.

Better to barter a bushel of peas
for a well-honed axe handle,
graze my sheep in the commons
with yours, the sacred pasture
at the heart of every village.

Our little farms touching in one meadow,
we’ll send bees back and forth in a country
with no border but the stars.
No minarets and spires, but treetops,
Raven Mother perched in one,
Eagle Father in another, calling us
to lauds and evensong.

Shamanic circles, bio-regional theologies.
Eight billion gods, each with a human body.
And one ancestral bonfire
to change the bones of the dead into the sky.

I will dance like a flame in your kiln,
you like a pear on my table.
Let there be drums in the ancient forest
filled with the rhythm of our roots.

Every house a temple, every child a priest,
every leaf an offering, every word a prayer.
And so in each shall be increased
the mystery that is everywhere. 

____________ 

 

Deireadh leis an gcorparáid mhór.
Deireadh leis an náisiún-stát.
Deireadh leis an eaglais dhomhanda, gúrú an domhain.
Réidh chun filleadh agus blaiseadh den athbheochan
lonrach sa rud is lú agus sa rud áitiúil.
Gan deas ná clé ann: an lár, sea,
ach gan imlíne ar bith.

Buiséal piseanna
a mhalartú ar hanla tua dea-snoite,
na caoirigh a chur ar iníor sa choimín
le do thréadsa, ba mhaith sin
an féarach beannaithe i lár gach sráidbhaile.

Ár bhfeirmeacha beaga in aon mhóinéar amháin,
beacha á gcur sall is anall againn i dtír
nach mbeadh de theorainn aici ach na réaltaí.
Gan túirín gan spuaic, ach barr na gcrann,
ár Máthair an fiach dubh ar chrann díobh
ár nAthair an fiolar ar cheann eile, ag glaoch orainn
chun moltaí is chun easparta.

Fáinní seamanacha, diagachtaí bithréigiúnacha.
Ocht mbilliún dia, a cholainn féin acu go léir.
agus tine chnámh shinseartha amháin
chun spéir a dhéanamh de chnámha na marbh.

Damhsód mar lasair i d’áithse,
tusa mar phiorra ar an mbord.
Bíodh drumaí ann san fhoraois ársa
lán de rithimí ár bhfréamhacha.

Gach tigh ina theampall, gach páiste ina shagart,
gach duilleog ina hofráil, gach briathar ina phaidir.
agus méadófar ar an mistéir
atá i ngach ball faoin spéir.