I was at a house concert for
Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.
A musician asked if someone
would read aloud
the accompanying sonnets
and someone volunteered me
I borrowed some glasses and
I gave it a try
and soon heard my mother’s voice
speaking through me
I doubt anyone in the room
recognized the voice of the
90-year-old woman
who used to read aloud
on Sunday at Holy Family Church
but I recognized her, so
I got out of her way
And let her read “Autumn,” then
I noticed her father’s voice
speaking through her
The dead speak
If we care to listen
each time we open our mouths
I love the recognition and immediacy of the ancestral voices speaking in your present moment and through your poem inviting me to remember to listen as well.
Thanks, Christine. Immediacy is what poets go for, at least the poets I love. To catch something that flits through awareness like a sparrow in the bushes, hopping and chirping, then gone, is what we hope for.
(An Irish-language treanscreation by Gabriel Rosenstock of How the Dead Speak)
TEANGA NA MARBH
le Robert Wilson
Bhíos ag ceolchoirm bhaile
le haghaidh Ceithre Ráithe Vivaldi.
D’iarr ceoltóir orainn an léifeadh duine againn
na soinéid a ghabhann leis
os ard
agus preasáladh mise.
Fuaireas spéaclaí ar iasacht
agus thugas faoi
is ba ghearr gur chuala mé
guth mo mháthar ag labhairt tríom
B’ionadh liom dá n-aithneodh
Éinne eile sa seomra
guth na mná 90 bliain d’aois úd
a léadh os ard Dé Domhnaigh
i Séipéal an Teaghlaigh Naofa
ach d’aithnios-sa í, mar sin
Bhogas as a slí
is ligeas di ‘An Fómhar’ a léamh, ansin
thugas faoi deara go raibh guth
a hathar siúd ag labhairt tríthi
Labhraíonn na mairbh
dá n-éistfí leo
gach uair a n-osclaímid ár mbéal.
Thank you, Gabriel!
My Irish grandfather would be pleased.